I'm not who I was.
(A poem for my struggling insomniacs and those who commiserate.)
The front end…
it’s not so rough.
I’ll drift off with the stars and stuff
my mind in the subconscious.
Though rest may not be had in sleep
when I get lost within the deep
and tangled webs of the dream-weaver.
Violently rescued from the stuck, I’m plucked.
Alas, 3 exhausting, slumbering hours have passed.
No more the sleeping mind shall last
to play among those resting.
Spastic eyes, you shall not laze.
Sundry shades of blackness
studied by your deepest gaze.
Creeping hours, deafening silence,
blazing darkness: passive violence.
Until at last, the morning comes.
The birds, they chirp before the sun
will rise and warm your peaked face.
Variant pitch morphs into color.
Paint your visage, be a mother.