When I tried sleeping on a king sized bed of pure gold,
engulfed my persona in quilts embossed with biscuits of exquisite silver,
I took extreme caution while tossing and turning,
my body vehemently refrained to sleep all night,
so as to preserve crisp creases in the rich bricks of dazzling yellow.
When I attempted sleeping on luxury beds embodied in ornate satin,
a mattress of wild musk grass firmly riveted to its face,
with ravishing cologne sprinkled bountifully all over,
and slippery floss tickling numerous zones of my silhouette,
the royal environment of sponge evaporated indispensable traces of sleep.
When I ventured sleeping on colossal beds of pearl soap tablets,
with minute scriptures articulately scribbled all over,
and the fragrance of sea oyster emanating wildly from all quarters,
my body felt fidgety, satisfying itself with abstemious amounts of sleep.
When I dared sleeping on plush beds of dotted panther skin,
the softness in flesh texture sinking me down,
ghastly premonitions of the live beast flooded my mind,
I awakened with panic stricken jolts in middle of the night.
I then made resolute resolves to sleep on bed carpets of solitary road,
with the creamy moon impregnating me with beams of tranquil calm,
mundane noises of vehicular traffic sporadically flooding my ear,
the tepid breeze my passionate companion,
and the pitch dark blackness my quilt for the night,
I instantaneously fell asleep with dreariness of the previous nights now converted to loud snores.
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