Sinister by Eliza Quinzet


Sleep is only sinister when it eludes,
or when it creeps into our eyes
while we are still obligated to wakefulness.
But, when stars are chased too soon,
shooed from the velvet counterpane
by the hand of dawn,
it is sleep’s departure we mourn,
sleep we will call to from our half-awake state,
sleep we will hasten to
as to a lover waiting to catch us up
out of the clutches
of a more


Eliza Quinzet is a writer and lover of literature. Check her out at


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