Sleep Does Not Come Poem by Richard Blanch

Sleep does not come. That particular god swims
Through the stars well out of reach. Lassitude
Sags but the mind’s buzzing bulb will not dim
To meet the dark. Waving fronds of dream elude
The fumbling fingers of the brain. Then limbs
Stir, squirm and struggle, seeking pleasing food

For the soul. It vanishes. And instead
Ghosts of the day begin to crowd and crow,
Unwelcome cockerels of no morning. Bed
Becomes restive, a prison, The hours flow
Jagged by and anger forces its unwanted head
Fierce in my face. Future comes like a foe

Sticking its burrs and weeds around my eyes
Till faint pallor sickens the exhausted skies.