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.