Saturday, January 22, 2005


I hear the clock's sprung heart split time as neatly
as the numbers on the face
impose precision and division
on the circle's endless run.

Incessant ticks drip from time's
leaking tap
wearing away the silence
like a stone.

I toss in sleeplessness,
Thoughts are chasing tails across synapses
In the all-too-wakeful brain.

But dreams are brewing in the mind's dark cauldron
as the day's dim ghosts replay.

I live to sleep.
Another day.

(c) A McN

Sleep is evasive, especially when chased.
Writing is one of the few ways I know of fighting insomnia.


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