there is something comfortable
about a sofa
early morning
television on mute
consciousness slipping in and out.
it dates back to the early days
locked in solitude
with a lone voice
asking or ordering
to take these weary bones to bed.
the days of breaking night are over
age pushes the body to sleep
but the mind wants to know why.
theories are pondered
the answer of why will stay out of reach
in perpetual movement
on the outskirts of the creep.
