Ah. . . blissful sleep that carries me away to the soothing land of "before."
A place where pain and hurt cannot touch, yet only the called go through this door.
A land of refuge that soothes my soul and all is right with the world again.
This cherished and mystical thing called sleep, my quiet home, my solace, my friend.
But alas, where are you, my alluring comfort? Why won't you come to me tonight?
Have I offended you somehow, that you would torture me so with this plight?
I search for you, hour after hour, like a lost child calling for her mother.
As each minute ticks by, I realize you've deserted me - again preferring another.
I beg you, please come to me, my ally called sleep. For when I am with you there is no pain.
The pictures fade, the struggle subsides, my pleading no longer in vain.
Finally my mind is drifting, my eyelids droop, and I hear your sweet refrain:
"Yes, I will rock your soul to sleep tonight, but all I can promise is a respite from all the strain.
You see, only Father Time can heal your wounds and grant your desire of peace.
He holds the key to your broken heart, only he your pain can release.
For as you know, your wounds are deep, and all I can offer are dreams of yesterday.
But dreams only last a little while, the day soon dawns, and then I must slip away."
So once again my friend called sleep, turns his back on me in search of another.
Much like my beloved chose to do in the seasons called spring and summer.
My hope now rests in Father Time, the slow keeper of the balm.
Who miserly measures his healing ointment to create in my heart some calm.
