Insomnia dreams in
the dead light of stars
marauding as the monitor glow.
Words shouting themselves
ricochet downards across
electric granite.
Insomnia dreams in
a red scrawl:
sleep's desperate handprints
breaking the window,
clawing at the wall.

A funeral march
stumbles backwards.
The dregs of a memory
loses its shoe in the dust.
Sanity fragments
and its shadows caw,
flap their wings,
and circle the ceiling.
The dead turn clockwise.
Insomnia dreams.

Two motes of dust meet,
then separate,
falling parallel to each other.
Floating together across
crystal windows,
they disappear into twilight.

I observe the death of satellites.
I plummet with them
to pass the time.
We drop in tandem,
igniting,
scorching the night
to the grey before dawn.
Insomnia dreams the last;
We fall past the remains
of the moon's suicide.
The lids of my eyes surrender to gravity.

(In the morning
I will wake to find
two motes of dust lying,
as if dead,
a papercut away
from one another.)

08/15/2005

Author's Note: Insomnia

Posted on 08/15/2005
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