Poem: Insomnia



Two Oh eight in the morning
and your mind is an attic
full of trunks that will not stay closed,
skeletons that dance with glee, released
and paying no attention to the hour
or your need for rest.

You are the least important creature
in this nighttime macabre,
a bystander really, in awe
of how much stuff is stored up there, in awe
of its persistence, it’s refusal to die
after being so quiet for so long
and you are left wondering how much noise the dead can make,
and why.

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