Nayer

She says she can’t sleep,
as in won’t-
it’s a waste of life.
They've never written a poem
that has a rhyme.
Her day always has reason,
she’s aware of the time.
They know why the seasons turn-
and not from online.
She’s the intelligence of god,
except you choose to fall in line.
For they are the warmth of honey in tea,
and always kind.