Hypnos

The night is his mother, the darkness is his father;

Sleep is the brethren of death.

The twins, in all glory can tear away consciousness,

Gentle Hypnos in his cave, drawing a slow breath.

In his fist Hypnos holds the reigns to memory and free will,

The hours in his universe give way to the dust of burial.

When the gold skies begin to cast a shadow 

We begin anew in the folds of our mortal material.

The poppies, weeds and valerian roots once gnawed the entrance,

Barring entry to the unwanted visitors of light and sound.

Until war brought him the youngest of Graces, Pasithea, 

The deity of meditation and relaxation, seldom earthbound.

The words of yesteryear echo today,

The river of forgetfulness flows through his home.

A man spends almost half his life sleeping,

This half is a realm for the God of Sleep to own, to roam.