Insomnia

Insomnia

Sleep escapes me,
a moth just out of reach,
refusing to rest upon my hand
but instead settling on the windowsill,
looking out into the chilling darkness
restless and impatient
for a brighter future to come.
I try calling out,
comforting it with sweet words,
butterflies slipping from my lips,
pouring into the air,
a pitcher of calm
spilling around me,
drenching me in hope.
Yet, the moth doesn't mingle
with these foolish insects,
but slips through the bars
and soars into the haunting sky,
searching for what cannot be caught,
only anticipated.

So I sit alone,
shivering in my own pool of possibilities,
wishing that there was
a clear answer to grab onto
and wipe away the icy fingers
dripping down my back,
up my thigh,
across my cheeks,
through my hair.
They chill me to my core,
sending icicles up and down my spine,
keeping me awake
well past wisdom's hour,
dragging me on until
I simply cannot arise,
my bed becoming a cell,
I frozen to the sheets
in a shuddering sleep.