Poem: Written While Asleep

This poem was jotted through a half-delirious state.
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Written While Asleep

all impostors, some time, write an ode to sleep
to sleep, that dog of religion, that half-face
of death, that purveyor of wonder,
that hoard of dream and ferryman return--
sleep, healer in a way I don't understand
that lives in haiku, sung in sonnet,
who hires heroes in times of disbelief
and rocks us sling-swung
over a beak through the air. sleep,
who we strive to behold;
sleep, who owns no possession,
holds us enthralled.