Sleep is Yelling in this One-Half Room

My sleep has been yelling.
Put this hoarse cry to rest
so I may rest my head
to do the work of a poet.
Kiss the salt turned colonnade
with the wet lips
of my genealogy.
I speak to you
night time musings,
you who touch my cheek
with a pounding chant
groaning its rhythm
in the cranial halls of my pillow.
Swirling on top of the white walls
are the lost lingering words
that never dared to paint
my automatic musings onto
the milky sweat gleaned canvas
I joyously press my hand against
on murky window evenings.
The eyes cannot close still,
this room is one-half of itself
the pages of the inky receiver
lay open and off past the white lines of roads
distant from the blanks between sentences
you stand over my passions wake
rearranging the fate of logic
so my young legs may grow
for then I may see you
even past great emerald mountains,
over battered seas of dry sleep.
With this bone cradled lighthouse in mind,
I find my away across this sea
onto a full comfort
that quells the screams of
this one-half room.