The Insomnia of Old Gods

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The dog breathing at my back has captured Morpheus, ran him down,
while for me that elusive god is nowhere to be found.

Day finds me stumbling like Atlas with his boulder,
trying to still fit this slippery world upon my inadequate shoulders.

If I am to fall into that blessed sleep than a release must come,
to stronger hands than old gods or mine I must succumb.

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