The Restful Sleep, Peaceful Night, Which with my flying fingers I fight as i type

I see you life, watching, plotting

Your assassins have failed again, whether by design or the art of incompetence

As the moon lit night becomes my muse I ponder why when I need sleep my mind is wired to rearrange the stars, as a mere parlour trick of the power my mind commands

Within the fevered fog of a creative haze I stumble, each line I compose a fragment of the obscured vision I flail hopelessly to reveal

The looming threat of a headache front clouds the horizon, any certainty of health I may wish for beset by instability, born of both my nature and the curse of chasing time

Eyelids collapse with weakness as my long awaited sleep heralds its arrival, how long can I hold back the tide of tiredness, how long can I justify the futile exercise of resistance my flawed nature persists

The sheep I count take forms of words, over the fence and into the screen that loyally serves my need to type fever induced collections of letters than attempt to resemble coherent lines

I am finally awash with restful waves that crash upon the endless beach of my unconscious dreams, unless these waves are an illusion of the darkness that shifts into more nightmarish forms

Must type, must write, challenge with unhealthy cause the endless night

My resources spent as into realms beyond I submit, for in these hours I fight my lust for sleep, only to find that with the daylight sun I will crave the bliss of a restful night


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