Melatonin

rushing through veins
little bubbles
that carry nocturnal serum
the stuff that dreams
are made of man
that's plucked from
moonlight plumage
stolen from bogeymen's
satchels and ground
into what only
the Sandman can
interpret on blank
parchment peeled
off the inner eyelids
of slumber, surrender
to swift optical dancing
in between worlds
of dark and light
of obscene existence
and lucid sight
now rest, they say
but what wicked ways
we have all weaved
for the dreams dreamt
have all deceived
and rest flies out
on some whim
escaping this soul
its bones and skin