An Ode to Insomnia

A Poem by Reddog19

Inspired by Anton Chekhov and Pablo Neruda. The title is meant to seem sarcastic.

An Ode to Insomnia

The darkness
Calls my eyes
To sleep,
Yet my mind
Does not heed.
It stays
Awake
Smiling at the
Silent shadows,
Hanging
Like TV static
On the corners
Of the circle
That is my room.

My mind smiles
Its twisted grin,
And shakes its head
Once more,
Maniacally cackling
As the hours,
Minutes,
Seconds
Of lost sleep
Tick
By.

The mind
Of an insomniac
Is not a kind one,
Though it does have
Its place.
Its place among
Those who write
Epic works,
Those who are
Great thinkers,
Those who wish
They could dream
Of their own gooseberries.
Insomnia creates
Wonderful works
Of fiction.

Like an unrelenting
River, its victim
Thinks of the world,
Their perception
Coming out like
Frozen ice in summer.
Like a rush
Of snails,
Their minds imagine
Worlds where they too
Can sleep,
Uninterrupted,
Through the night.
Because even the thinker
Needs to dream.

Suddenly,
The sun is shining
Upon their face.
A new day has begun.
A new dawn brings
With it new possibilities.
A new time
Where lives flourish,
Mingling with the souls
Of each other.
Today is different.

The sun chases
The shadows away,
Leaving an ocean
Of golden sweetness
To devour the
Unformed darkness.
It spreads warmth
Upon the corners
Of the circle.
The mind awakens,
And sees the spell
It was under.

Even the tricked must admit
That the paper lying next
To it is well-written.
There it will stay,
Until the next time
That it will be filled
With the dreams
of an insomniac.