I'm tossing and turning in bed.
Can't get comfortable.
Trying to quiet a restless mind.
But there's no off switch.
Outside it's raining, again; steadily.
On the inside, too (of me).
The darkness is a mental lens,
Through which each thought becomes a scene.
(Becomes a seen.)
Where's the Sandman when you need him most?
A grain or two would surely do.
Maybe he stayed home due to rain.
Adjusting pillows for the hundredth time.
There's no fit to this feathery puzzle.
Keep checking the clock,
As if reminding myself how late it (still) is will suddenly induce slumber.
It doesn't.
It never does.
Time marches on,
and I'm awake to see it go by.
I decide to crawl into the pages of a notebook,
And write until I see
a parade of words
dissolve
behind
closing eyes…
© Copyright 2009 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.
