She escapes entirely,
slipping through night’s fingers
as words oppose the moon with deafening defiance.
His grasp cannot contain her. She teases and flirts,
leaving little more for his indulgence than disquieting dreams
and distorted fabrications.
“Be tender,” I implore her. For what does it profit her
to withhold her gift? What vile fulfillment
attends this senseless game?
My prayer (and praise) on your behalf is found in Psalm 4:8. “In peace I will lie down and sleep. For you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety.” Sleep well, my friend.