Insomnia. [day 29]

Three o’clock and the night air bites
through the paneless window—
it is always the chill of these pre-spring nights
that lays bare a self’s small woes.

Heady are the foggy rays of a streetlight
which secretly, I’d like to believe
are the soundless songs of the bright
sleep-fairy who frolics within her cocoon.

Deep is the sleep she does promise
oblivion is the spirit she brews;
there is not a soul alive who is
immune to the pull of the earth.

Yet still the sheets do pull and warp
relentless in their pursuits
their only goal to usurp
a nightly dose of respite.