Poetry as a loophole for run-ons

Today I counted, on a whim,
the ways the sun came slinking in:
across the dusty ancient floors
it crept and slipped under the doors and
in the cracks it sat and slept the day away
disturbing nests of birds and bugs who'd made their homes
in crumbling walls and brittle tomes.
My sleepy eyes saw past their lids
and peeked deep into secret slits
to watch the dance of wings and motes,
the sunbeams tiny rays of hope for
beetles with performer's hearts -
I saw the careful practiced art in
every move that nature made.
My head sunk deeper in the haze of
summer's heavy cloying heat,
my body felt a helpless peace
as thoughts and words slipped off to hide
and tangle in my sleeping mind. 

Goodnight world and goodnight sun;
though the star's reigns just begun and
I have only moments rest
before the aching in my chest
that craves a constant steady stream of
words and knowledge, sights and dreams,
wakes me from my shallow doze and
bids me "rise and walk the groves of
summer starlight with your eyes and
take in every word and line and
inspiration you can find and
fight your way onto the page till
every letter fits in place
and then, finally, you can sleep." 

With my thoughts here set in ink
my reward is empty sleep.