In which I fail to emulate Shakespeare

In what I can only assume was an exhaustion-induced attempt at emulating the poetic style of Shakespeare, my 12-year old brain produced this bizarre piece. First, the original, then a translation of what I must have been trying to say.

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [original]
Thus forth thy fingers curl
I prosper in my glory
For hath the monsters do I call
In the wrath of thy sleep
For art thou here at all
Or do I whisper words of death
For thy loving self in all thy wisdom
Must proceed in the wrath of thy sleep

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [translation]
And so onward the digits of your hands bend
I succeed in my great splendor
But I have to call on the monsters
In the midst of your angry sleep
For are you even here?
Or do I whisper words of death
To you, self-loving as you are of all your knowledge
I must continue on despite this angry sleep of yours

Well, either way, it’s totally messed up.