My Metaphysical Insomnia

I don’t know if I miss you

But I won’t forget the nights,

We spent watching the night waste away,

Leaping over the horizon turned waterfall,

On the short-lived winds of hope,

Dissipated by the pull of regret,

To rip the soul out from the scene,

Leaving some brightly transparent husk called day,

To illuminate the earth below by means,

Which is to say by perspective forced,

Of obfuscation via canopy:

The truth shall set you free,

And by the same breath see you buried.

Just when the light sought to drown us,

We always found respite in that freshly dusken breath,

As Nix finds her way back,

Through blinding light,

To those aching for the cover of night,

For burns and burdens alike.


I keep blurring,

The switch between then and now:

Today and tomorrow.

Night comes in like fuzzy static,

Echoing silent absurdity,

Interference where insulation once was.

The days are hazy,

Locked away behind screens of concrete and glass,

Fashioned after some funhaus,

Confusing the path of origins,

With lingering laughter of authors unknown.

My insomnia has broken through the physical,

And steeped itself in the meta dredges,

Of imagined conversations,

Between actors foreign,

To one another’s story,


Leaving me nightblind;

Unable to close my eyes to see the truth.


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