Counting sheep is cliche

Snowy soft slippers grace my feet
as I perch on the side of the bed, I think,
will I sleep and dream of things beyond me?
In what dimension will my mind rest in this
dilemma, this universal quandary?
Might I travel far in the future
or stay right here snug in my stockings?
Do sounds, people and places seem real
if trapped in a brain which feels?
Seems funny that my head does sense all the time
without my conscious teleprompter
knowing the unconscious next line.
Counting sheep is cliche, I sheer some wool
and sew winter clothing, needle-points
prick my sharp skull, my hands wonder if I sleep at all.
Restless, tireless slumberer trembles loose under the covers,
itchy blankets, scratchy cerebral hide-and-seek monsters
excavate memory and redecorate in shades of white infinity.
Waking up, drool dripping from my lips, eyes crusted over,
hair recklessly amiss, I blink at the alarm clock, toss the pillow
and scream for meaning in this drop-dead world.