Power Struggle

Sleep tucks the duvet

under my chin

and presses his palm 

against my forehead.

It’s time, my darling, 

he whispers,

breath like lavender.

But I am not ready

I insist, an insolent child

with arms crossed

and feet kicking.

Just one more show, 

one more page 

one more hour,

I plead.

But his grip grows stronger

than my contempt,

and his embrace too warm to ignore,

and despite my best effort to 

hold onto a few more minutes of 

consciousness, 

his hazy fog creeps in-

My eyelids droop.

I’m standing on the edge 

of Sleep’s dark abyss.

He leans in closer,

and using his index finger and thumb,

closes my eyelids,

like he’s the coroner 

and I’m his corpse.