DYI: leftover sleep

If you store residual sleep in an iris chalice, and feed it with ache, tears darkness and regrets, you'll see how your ignored winks have started to stir and grow wings.

Dulled with tears and darkened with pain, sits a moth with a faceless face. His wings moth eaten and broken in places, this stupid moth has been awake for ages. 

A million drops of unfinished sleep to make him, a river of tears to wake him, yet he sits still waiting to mutate, back into the sleep you demonically craved. 

 One last wingless flight, a trail of blaze, triumph of glory; the moth liquidates, into a pool of sleep, sinking in your tar orbed eyes.