Cousin of Death

Black cloak-
White fingers-
Sharp sickle-
Horns like a goat-
Repeat, repeat, repeat…
They say that sleep
is the cousin of death,
So I pray before I close
my eyes as if this inhale
shall be my last breath,
Soon my mind is nothing,
A windowless space of volume
With infinite potential
to be something,
Here and now are but veils,
Two halves of different coins
that both display tails…
Rainbow colored cloak-
Crystalline fingers-
Jeweled scepter-
Horns that look like thorns-
Brilliant and beautiful,
Is the cousin of death,
A perpetual weaver of
the realm of dreams…
For Sleep is the Creator
and we are but his children,
Abstract notions floating  
in the deep made concrete,
Enlightened by this knowledge,
I know the waking world
to be a different place
than it seems…
Repeat, repeat, repeat…