Insomnia

Sleep is long in coming

even though I lay, my weary body

as a sacrifice, to her feet;

she refuses to embrace me.

She teases –

like a leaf caught in wind dance

or like the butterfly driven

by the sweet scent of nectar

on a flower, she cannot reach.

 Dreams, misconstrued demand

attention, clanging in discord,

in my mind, unable to be captured

or silenced.

And though the day is long

he does not release me into

night’s bosom, but instead

plays fragmented images of

mistrust, doubt, into the

shadowed recesses of my

aching heart.

Long past the witching hour-

long after the moon is cast

from its pinnacle in the sky,

beyond the early traces of dawn

peering around the curtain of night,

sleep remains illusive,

and I am fearful of

the new morning.

Do you ever feel like