I cannot sleep.

The wind laughs too loud.
The bed's too warm for my quartered self,
A thousand displayed images mean nothing
to me - I am alone, and fitful, and hollow,
Too sick for sleep. I am this night -
cold soul, black heart, blind sight -

The willow whips the window glass
in a lover's fit. I need your hands,
I cannot sleep. Your life, free of mine,
has forgotten me - I am my own
and I lie crumpled.
I fantasize an abandoned doll.

(My sleepless eyes see laughter on each wall)

Two down, one to go -
three is the charm that binds
and I avoid the third. I've been mastered enough.
My illness burns when I cannot sleep,
it askes me - catechismically - am I not my own?
It sneers. I long to fly.
Laughing on glass panes,
The rain splatters like mad tears:
weeps with my zeroic soul
on its void of fears -

An abandoned mask -
a powerless thing -
a white snow owl without wings -
my dreams strangle me where I lie,
not needing sleep to take me where they will.
I am an ourobouric glyph. Self-eating,
I curl unseen.
My joy needs so little to go where it has been -

My bed is too large, I cannot sleep.
Pictures are poor company to keep.