Sleep

I love the language of Shakespeare. The forms, the words, the ebb and flow of his speeches and scenes. I wish I had the smallest modicum of his talent, to be able to craft words in the way he did. All I can do, in my own silly and unworthy way, is to try and write things in the flavor of his language.

In deepest night,
Whilst sleep did so evade me,
Such wicked vision with malice
And cruelty did come, to mine eyes.
O, could man such as me stand
A sight so evil? But in all darkness
Abound, one more dark picture
Could not any more disturb this
Countenance.
Sweet wine doth lose its potency,
Dark poppy, with its heavy smoke,
Doth fail in all its ability.
All thoughts of restoring sleep
Are driven, as the wind doth drive the
Clouds, away and far, by these scenes
So shown to mine eyes.
O torturous mind, why must thou
Bring to me such unwanted and
Unwarranted scenes? Be at peace, you,
And grant this man only sleep, in all
Its blessed majesty. Sleep, and only sleep.

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