Sep 2014
I drank once,
from the deep well of sleep
when cool waters refreshed this parched earth,
now barren without nourishing dreams.
My worries grow futile shoots
in the hardpack, they wither and die.
Ashes scattered dryly
fuel further frets.
This drought is not over.
from the deep well of sleep
when cool waters refreshed this parched earth,
now barren without nourishing dreams.
My worries grow futile shoots
in the hardpack, they wither and die.
Ashes scattered dryly
fuel further frets.
This drought is not over.
Today I feel the weary from a night made sleepless by worry. This poem sums up how stark my worries seem while the house is alseep. Insomnia is a cruel mistress who deprives me of the luxury of vivid dreams.
