Poetry / The Unwelcome Comrade

Sleep is a friend of man,
But a foe to a writer.
My throbbing body invites you
Though my roving mind declines.

Out of nowhere you emerge
Knocking not at my door,
But on my eyelids.
Seeking asylum within my iris.

With one eye ajar and one eye close,
I struggle to record this;
For a turbulent battle is underway above my nose.
You assemble your sandcastle within my lids.

You turn my baby blues
To gritty reds—
With sandbag eyes, you send me to bed.
An unwelcome comrade, ‘nough said!

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