and has become a distant friend

that writes tiny tidbits

in spastic winks.

This desperate pattern

breaks a leaf

and crowds a page

in my book of life.

My nocturnal nemesis

now takes precedence of time

and I dabble with synthetic

cerebral coaxing with hope

that the vintage grape

will be a catalyst for this free pen.

The words flow finally,

indigo rivers from somewhere deep

within my quasi-inebriated brain,

gathering like soldiers

ready to fight my quintessential battles.

Sleep won't visit, so at three

in the morning I open the door

to invite a memory in,

perhaps two, then drift away

on clouded thoughts.

I awaken to half a world

of blinding sunshine

and foggy concentration

that lasts and lasts until once again

insomnia…