Baskadia

My bed calls. The chirping of the birds is swallowed by the gentle yawn of the wind. It's night.

My bed calls. As I lay my head on my pillow, a virtual appearance of the day I've had flashes before my heavy lidded eyes. The morrow will be better I say but deep down, I commit my spirit into my maker's hand.

In my heart is the prayer that I'll do better tomorrow, if the night doesn't lure me into its unsuspecting clutches. My bed calls. And this time, I end the call to the realm I see and answer the call to the realm unseen.

May my blind trust not thrust a spear into my delicate rare...