Insomnia Plague

It's been sixty days

Since the black sky opened up the food-gates

Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds

Held back any

Recollection

Of the bloodshed

Somehow

And now

This unending rain

Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves

Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague

This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note

I've become something even less than a ghost

Even more of a though, I've become a mirage

I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame

I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague