Insomnia Suite

Night plays games with sounds:

waves of rustling whispers,

echoes of ghosts,

yielding to the gloom,

dissolve into a minor key—

the mournful cry

of a thing lonely or afraid.

 

 

Night plays games with light;

moonlight and darkness breed dancers,

waltzing on the lawn outside,

rise wth the mist to the trees,

ride the dew to the grass,

a miniature ferris wheel,

a galaxy of blue-white stars,

fireflies orbit  the holly.

 

 

My eyes prickle with the salt locked inside.

 

 

Night plays games with time;

eyelashes always heavy

with droplets of memories uncalled;

I live another lifetime still—

between these steps of mine.

 

 

—Carole