Insomnia

Five after four in the morning. Night-sweats rumple silk bed sheets. Vague cusp ‘tween night and day blurs chiseled contours of sanity’s sharpness. Dreams half-way loosed into consciousness waylay snuggling comforts. Wee hours’ vague demons lurk tucked beneath pillowcased hopes, threatening melee. Coffee at four twenty, brewed under knee-jerk rituals uncritically gleaned in tender years, won’t clear the spider webs. Thinking is hard work. Terrible, really, yet recently shed tears obscure simple joy’s sole right to imminence, caking like blood drawn by yesterday’s spears. ‘Til mercy’s sunbeams despite grief’s vehemence melt bitter frostbite of long lost innocence.