by Diane Wilson
Warm honey-sweetened sleep evades me.
Hypnos comes softly;
his tranquil touch
fails to suppress the senses,
depriving me of chances to dream.
A strange orange lustre from street lamps
seeps through gaps in the curtains,
car headlights sweep over the ceiling,
left to right, right to left
An engine stops, hefty clunks of doors
and merry chattering voices echo,
louder than in day time.
I seek out another blanket for warmth,
turn pillows for coolness,
try easing into comfort.
Trivial aches and pains magnified by darkness.
I've learned the faces and phases of lady moon,
have lain in the sun's
reflected silver light
as the duvet drapes drowsily over
my sleepless form.
Just one of many who cannot sleep,
though all of us are lonely at night.
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