Emulsified by a dead end, 
We all meet that dismal friend
Who utilizes a life chronometer 
As a personal carpet sweeper.

Under the rug where life always goes,
With dust and dirt and dreary woes.
The gloom collects high events too, so
Pass it in, it will be soon overdue.

What is that feeling before sleep?
A sort of in between within the deep,
Where nothing is felt or seen
Simply only the dance of dreams.

Except this time when you close your eyes,
Forever idle for the sun's journey; horizon to sky
Waking no more for a live daily chore
Resting with twin of Hypnos, forever more.