Insomnia: Part II

Each night a silent scream 
as the second hand flicks merrily
across the face of the clock 
like a taunting, rotating, sinister moustache.
The villainous face grins at me. 
Each echoing tick like diabolical laughter. 
What I would not give to see that smirk
wiped off the face of that clock 
and replaced with the bittersweet tears
that fall down mine. 
The whole world, asleep and uncaring, 
selfishly, blissfully resting 
while you writhe and coil, 
snake like, 
around the carcass of your own sanity. 
Your yawning jaw gapes and dislocates
as it consumes sanity whole. 

Allergic to the sandman’s dust, 
it brings not pleasant dreams 
and wistful, wishful fantasy. 
But nausea and headaches, 
and puffy, streaming eyes. 
Prostrate next to me 
in my hard, uncomfortable bed 
lies not a body of unbridled love. 
But misery and cancer 
in the form of empty space
and discarded cigarette boxes. 
Exotic insignia etched upon their 
cardboard frames tell of such 
distant locations as I will I could dwell. 
Instead I merely sate my lungs 
with their empty promises, 
and consciously dream of unconsciously dreaming. 

Nightfall merely a hangman’s noose, 
the crepuscular calls of savage predatory birds my knell. 
A part of me dies each lonely, sleepless night. 
A part of me impossible to replace.