Green skin beats healthily beneath white/fire lamps. Pipes of dull/iron coil heavily beneath each holy cot, supporting them, supplying them. Tube/feeds snake inside, penetrating tough skin, pumping life.
The high/people sleep.
The care/keepers tend.
When the high/people made the sight/within device they discovered what they created in their mind/dreams each night, and what they destroyed each morning.
The high/people/nation each split the fundament as they fell asleep, and brought about apocalypse as they woke.
Galaxies and other/peoples lost, forgotten, forever.
The high/people had never known such despair, such helpless/guilt. So they built the care/keepers, and the hope/sanctuaries that house mile beyond mile of holy cots, and they slept, never to wake again.
Sometimes, tragically, they die.
And worlds die with them.
Recommended Reading: Soul Marbles by Aaron Polson on Every Day Fiction.