In the quiet of my nights,
I must lay my head to rest,
In the realm of slumber
my dreams I must caress.
Yet as I drift away
to a world of sublime,
I'm haunted by the pain
of running out of time.
Sleep, some fleeting refuge where my fantasies bloom,
Yet I find myself yearning for more hours,
more time to consume.
The night is my canvas where wishes take flight,
But in the arms of Morpheus,
I long for more of my nights.
Each fleeting moment,
like grains through...