Ode to Sleep

I can't sleep.
I close my eyes, see the darkness,
the lack of thoughts,
And still sleep comes not.
My thoughts: details of the day, what was done and what was supposed to have been done
And all the winding things that lead to the feats of the day.
I just want to stop this waking consciousness; I'm stuck on too much me.
It doesn't matter the number of blankets or the fluffiness of the pillows
Nor the fatigure creeping over my eyelids.
It's like being left being by the pied piper,
All the others hop and dance with merriment, towards some Transylvania town named Slumber,
All the other sleepers sleep and some even snore.
I hobble, unable to catch the piper's song - it's the fault of that mishappen pipe.
I toss and turn, throw a pillow off the bed.
For that elusive piper comes not for me.
Where is the fountain of sleep? Never the fountain of youth, there's something much more important at hand.
I seek only the commonplace lull and call to sink and find rest for the weary.
Is there no rest for the weary?
And weary am I indeed.
But how?
I wonder how we fall asleep.
Shall I be wondering 'til morning comes?
With its dreaded claws of sun and light and wakefulness that strikes me like a mathc and fire through another day,
Only to be unable to rest after?
Oh, I have just one plaintive wish, to sleep, to sleep, if only for an hour!
Peaceful places ...
Shall I think of a lush quiet forest?
- the black forest is filled with ghosts and ghouls and goblins and graves and grooves and ...
Perhaps a calming lake?
- who knows what leviathan lurks beneathe the glassy blue exterior? What lost civilizations laid their haunts there? What monster holds its lair?
Oh sleep, oh sleep ...