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The Seven Days of January: ii:

It’s crisper. More than any other night.

The water in your breath the most you’ll get.

And if you breathe that water in just right,

your lungs will thank you, ‘ere they dry up yet.

‘Tis now that ice has conquered all in all,

no winds bring in the vapors of the South.

You feel the waterways give up and crawl

down to their destination from their mouth.

But in all this crypt stillness, if you can,

you may take a brave step outside to stroll

along those sluggish riversides, and stand

upon the ice, and let it take its toll.

And peace you will be given, in the chill:

the gift of stopping and for staying still.

~~~

By night I’m joined by a distinguished guest:

the Artist, best of all who do the craft,

who draws upon my walls while I make rest,

who is both Sleep, and Sleep’s adjutant staff.

He ofttimes paints strange things on his canvas,

and every once awhile a pretty scene;

but more than not, my wall is smeared abreast

with colors cruel, and nightmares most obscene.

He keeps them private for my eyes to see,

that only I endure the honor of

beholding that which scares and sickens me,

until I wake from Sleep’s depths out—above.

Dear Sleep, you are the Artist, best of all,

why do you draw your hells upon my wall?