The Bed Calls

Sitting in the room’s center,
It makes a pretty picture.
Nothing matters inside the room’s walls,
Once the bed calls.

Know that weary day,
When you’ve made too much hay?
The body aches to hear
The bed’s call just near.

That soft, sweet voice
Asking to make a choice,
To leave the day’s work behind
Or push the already-closed mind.

How many times it calls
Yet we wander away to the halls?
How many times we break
The promise to come soon we make?

Still, there it sits
Hoping into our schedule it fits.
Before we ready for new falls,
The bed patiently calls.

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