There are nights like these
When sleep refuses to come
And everything I touch reminds me of you
A novel, the remote, the pillow
Across on the wall
Your picture stares cruelly back at me
Mocking my insomnia
And I think
How happy he must be… far from me
The shadows creep, merge, mate and disintegrate
Time marches on….
My heart, my lonely heart beats with rhythmic precision
Into the empty night air
Boom, boom, boom….
A prelude, and inflection, a crescendo, a trough…
Boom, boom, boom
Tiny night things alight on my bedside lamp
And cast greater images than the insect themselves will ever attain
Sleep still refuses to come…
And morning is still hours away
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great description of something I know oh to well Good luck Ian