Asleep and Given to Dreams

The world alone,
spinning,
comes into and out of something
that I could have once known
as control;
but I sleep on shaded moments
of a worser-than-fate eclipsed and old torn memory
from the origins of something
and the who-knows-what-else could be.
Caught now in some type of melancholiac distress call
that so long ago was the tune I gave to sleep by.
But this, like so many other old daydreams torn
was just the evidence that so pointed me
toward the old gates of my soul's entrapment:
a justification of desires;
and I, now given in to arrogance,
it's derivation, a place I keep somewhere within,
go slipping almost gracefully into an undulating sea of glass
and fixed desires:
forlorn and falsely classified
(though a cage within me sings to free itself anew)
...I guess I had a moments rest before, so why not now?
Why not a moment to be still, be quiet, calm?
A sheltered stormed-in fallacy of truth, this calm,
so I condescendingly admit;
though I can barely hear myself breathing now...
barely, I can feel the spin of the world around me take control...
barely, I can feel its shaded moments
taking me away from this:
all of this, a sleep and then a dream:
a respite from the cumbersome.
A spin into old daydreams
and a shackle seen within…
so I shut my sight-filled eyes again,
a moment more is all I need
to let the spinning take control,
and then, at some point
it will all come round again
and in a dream I'll spin again
to the tune I used to sleep by,
in a memory torn and old.