Sleep

I lay upon my bed.
With a pillow under my head.
I feel dread.
Sleep, of thee my need is great.
For it is late.
Yet I am still awake.

I try to fight
Most every night.
It gives me such a fright.
I cannot block.
The ticking clocks.
My thoughts, my worries; they mock me.

I toss and turn.
Until my eyes burn.
I yearn.
For slumber.
I begin to wonder.
If I will ever go under.
—Robert Confiant 23 April 2016 (24 March 2018)

 

 

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