What can be said of a man who never sleeps
Than perhaps he lives a fuller life?
Yet, a lesser would seem more fitting
When every moment woken is a contemplation of wrongs
Breathing would lose purpose without dreams
All while nightmares paint on eyelids
Leaving each blink a tragedy
Bloodshot dementia crawls through your head
When all you dare ask for is a calmer scene
You lose faith in tasks and track of time
A moment slept becomes the silver stag
Sought after and grasped for but never caught
As the volume steadily groans about
Voices in and out with solemn style
Broken glass to feet leaves faint traces
But all feeling had since departed
You'd wonder, if thought weren't so illusive
Are you even awake at all?