It’s happening all too fast, I must find a place to sit.
Entrapped within the strangest hour, I lie here divorced from sleep.
Thus plagued and miserable, life is excruciatingly nauseating.
Reacting transcendentally at the fear of turning ill, Firing up
The cauldron of insomnia, welcoming it to slaughter any rest.
Sleepless miseries fleeing in vain, in fleeting days so easily forgotten.
Muddled in a search to find quintessential moments, to etch some memories,
To find a beacon that saves the day, convincing me that there is meaning.

A pale dark sky, a fading moon shining for its final few hours.  
For what I see in these bounded moments is fated for an interminable end.
As I already know the hours will pass by, the sky will be gone, only I will remain.
Why is it that I am always out of time? As I do nothing and relentlessly wait.
Yet there is one comfort, one hidden hour which is now. As I feel unbounded,
Free, being able to write  and comfortably sigh. For this hour is solely mine.
In this hour I find some peace in thinking of you, I see you as I close my eyes.