She's close to Death and is in his company, the living souls in dream shrouds can hear his onyx robes rustle, Death's Sister, Sleep, a maiden of somnolence, her veils of gossamer soft light. She can be far when some souls are restless, in ills of psyche, the haunting ponderous night accedes to an unwelcome gray dawn of cold rain, Sleep, oh Sleep, may you have our thoughts drifting blameless as a tot's, as the romance of the ascending moon is for youthful lovers. Death's Sister, she of the ages, yet, a forevermore beauty, as the myriads of stars glimmer in her long honeyed hair, her heavenly voice softly sings a lullaby, perchance, this eve my poet's ancient mind may nod and drift lightly slumbering in her gentle presence. ~