Sleepless

The hands of the clock keep travelling,

And with every trip, the night becomes more sinister,

Most find solace at the end of the day; for me, it is a curse,

For it is the black sky that gave birth to our ancient rumours.

The world has found peace with the dark,

Few remain conscious to the change in scenery,

The only objects that share our sympathy are the artificial lights,

For a curtain has been drawn over all other sights.

A pillow rests my woes, better than any human's false concern,

My head sinks deeper into the bed than the rest of my body,

For the weight of unfinished dreams burdens it,

And in a room filled with the promise of sleep, 

Only my nightmares do fit