Sleep is the enemy,
Plotting against you.
Interrogating you,
Replaying your memory.
It gossips about you,
Loud enough to hear,
It counts down the hours,
It rings in your ear.
Sleep is a witness,
To all you’ve done wrong.
It sings a shrill song,
It requests no forgiveness.
It visits me nightly.
It’s clear and persistent.
The voice never stops,
At least it’s consistent.
How can the mind be inactive enough to be taken over by a petulant voice, and yet be active enough to write poetry? The mind boggles.
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