insomniac

The world before you

lies 

in unmarred silence,

a pure expanse of white that spreads

like the untouched blankets on one side of the bed.

Each waking hour a repeat of a repetition.

The days lose their perforated edges 

in the painful smoothness of time 

and they run together

like bad watercolour paintings

hung before they dry.

Sleep,

a tendril stream of the dark sea that cleanses night

and trickles into a fresh morning,

ceases to flow.

Each waking hour a repeat of a repetition.

The End

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