All I can slip into is sleep.
All I can contemplate is its science.
With my fingertips controlling the volume.
My palms jacket my ears.
They have spoken their words in rhythm.
They have put on a spectacle to aid in my slumber.
Silence congests my senses.
Silence, with the exception of their melodies.
The harmonies metamorphose into a strange poetic utterances.
Unexpectedly taken back with new epiphanies.
Annunciated syllables have new sentiment and essence.
Instruments are no longer an accessory to the lyrics.
Instruments become the right hand man to each expressed verse.
Drunk with concept of utter musical handsomeness.
High with the English language and its capabilities.
Pleasure has left me bewildered, dizzy, light-headed.
Limbs become lethargic to the legato of the piano.
Eyes pirouette to the trunk of my head.
These formulas lay out the science of my sleep.
Contemplation coverts to disillusionment.
All I can slip into is this sleep.
All I can manipulate is the conclusions.
Sleep.

I approve.

You may like an old poem of mine, it may inspire you to rework this one:

The Grinding Sleep:

I lost a tooth last night asleep
in the grinding love of another dream.
I awoke in the early morning and
placed it beside my bed.

It was a molar, or part of one
the last part; and yeah, I wonder
why I don't feel the pain that others
would feel. It's as though I'm immune
to the tyranny of teeth.

There are two stumps now where
molars once were, which is funny because
I've brushed my teeth for the past ten years
every day thrice, in-between mouth washes and
toothpicking.

It seems unfair that one should suffer asleep
for his or her parents' lack of funds.
Braces of so many kinds could
have prevented all of this.

The problem, I've so many crevices.
Bony Convolutions where smoothness is right
like a victorian bosom, always
white and pressing.

The great thing is, of course, that they fall
out in slumber, when the process of decay
stands at the east flank in the morning sun.

Weak bones, weak teeth, weak lives
they seem to run in murders like crows
pining for worms and better things
that come up in the rain.

I bought a video microscope the other day
(so I say); it magnifies the smallest crease
in your finger to a seventeen inch high contrast
picture. The cracks in my fingers are crevices
black spots signalling my liver won't last so long.

The chewed skin at the side of my nails are mountains
with viral threads, microscopic, interrupting
a peaceful calamity of the skin.

But I wonder, I do so wonder why
I grind my teeth to shards in my sleep
'till stumps replace rocks and icebergs.

Do you think I'm nervous, so unconscious
wondering what has come of this?

Do you think I wonder
inept and weary
where I have come?

I had many wishes but
instead I grind my teeth and
in stead envelope
and chew myself

to and in

sleep.