The Ghost of Sleep | Poetry
Insomnia is a poltergeist
Fingers flit o'er tired flesh
Feeling the imperfections
Cresting the curve of my cheekbone
The artificial sound of waves crash
In tandem with the electric breeze
Fan taunting me with whispers
Sleep requires so much now
Meds, water, green vaped curls
All in attendance inside my skull
Squirrel spitting reminders
In haphazard waves of time
Past, present and future
And I stare into darkness
Squeaky wheel catching attention
Insomnia eats what brain cells remain.
©2024, CL Huth