I lie in limp lassitude lusting for a luscious lullaby to lull me to lazy lingering in la-la-land. I lapse into languor.
Lame late-night lunkheads leap loudly and labor long-term to lark and laugh my leisure into lost loveliness. Leaving me to lean, listless, longing for lasting loss of lucidity, the lap of luxury. I, a loopy lunatic, lose logic and lament.
A little light lets literature lessen the ledge and lends life to lost levity, lifting liveliness from limbo and letting lightheartedness lodge in lilting letters.
Leaden lashes lower at last.