Alone in old sheets of a quilten fold
Hiding from the sun and its piercing hue
The bed is as warm as the world is cold
Filtered voices offer nothing else new.

'Nothing' is the word for the world outside
of its prospects for yourself it outlines
No reason for the knot of sleep untied
to be walking amongst these insect kines

A nation of drones with a bar code brand
Walking on rails behind their hero whole
Is this the cause for which you rise and stand?
Or is a hoarded sleep your only goal?