Bed. Grave.

Beds or Graves?

It seems to me almost every night
I fall alseep feeling something's not right.
The whir of machines or the lights of a screen
Sing of lullabies, new planes hung from strings
Spin round my head, my new age mobile,
Talk nonsense, spit whispers, hum soft til I feel
That my blanket is dirt, my matress turns rocky
More like a corpse, a husk-shell, a body
Headboard a tombstone, the freshest incription
Reads "In Bed by Twelve, He'll Rise By Eleven"