The sun goes on its daily break,

and the moon is roused from its slumber.

Yet none of these lights grazes his skin,

for Hypnos’ house is in covers.

A hermit who naps in the bathtub at dawn,

and sleepwalks throughout the night.

He treats his life like one-night stands;

Alive, aware, then snuffed like a light.

He drowns himself in poppy seeds,

and hazily waltzes around.

He’s the wind of lethargic ecstasy.

The carelessness before falling down.

He dismisses the sound of busy life,

and the banging on his door.

He yawns at the sight of dark clouds,

and the smell of petrichor.

Closed eyes. closed blinds.

No friends to wish farewell.

No one would dare disturb the hermit,

and break in Hypnos’ shell.