Insomnia

I curse the ticking of the clock, the wind’s shrill voice, the sounds of night.

As in the darkened room I stiffly lie,

Awaiting sleep’s long-missing touch that hides for spite,

She hates me and avoids me but I don’t know why.

I‘d not, before, abused her name, opposed her will or stooped to fight

Against her as the hours passed swiftly by,

Yet as I watch the shadows turn to light,

She laughs at my despair and spurns my pleading cry.

 

Time was, I must have slept in peace, so long ago, I don’t know when.

Perhaps just as a babe tucked in my cot,

Enjoying dreams of things that mattered then,

Of dolls? Of milk?  Whatever, be it so or be it not,

I dare not think I’ll ever know such times of peace again.

I won’t pretend I have some idea what

To do to tempt this harpy from her den

And so this peaceless, restless night remains my piteous lot.

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