When you wake on the cusp of salt moisture and find yourself thin or deficient; when ticks, drips, creaks, rasps irk and the promise of dream-clouds is broken; creep like a hunger-strick beast growl on the prowl for fresh sleep. The beast seeks a morsel of sleep and cack cracks his throat after moisture. The air is displeasing, deficient, and now every breath starts to irk and with half-woke work, sleep is broken leaving cheap cheer for the beast. The jigsaw's too much for the beast who's, at the least, starved for sleep and clutching on tight to dry moisture. The night is a lover, deficient. The lover's wet fingers would irk; But will the silence be broken? Night wills. The silence is broken By growls in the heart of the beast Yearning for flesh-resting sleep Craving for meta-mouthed-moisture. Its paws are inept and deficient Its inept flesh starts to irk. Hurt wells. Heat swells the irk that is just a blood vessel. Broken, it seeps like a curtain. The beast, Unready, comes heady, and sleep settles, Certain. That soaking of moisture Reduces, the beast is deficient The poor beast is fading. Deficient of drought. How tragic! Shivers irk it to scratch 'til skin's broken. Blood dribbles and where is the beast? Drowned, in mistiful sleep, Deep in mythically wet morning's moisture. So relish moisture, deficient beasts. Don't irk broken sleep by tickling.