He Cannot Sleep

The night won’t let him rest,
And he’d trade all he owns,
For the simple gift of slumber,
To wake when morning drones.
But the moment dusk descends,
And the moon paints silver light,
Through the dance of shadowed phantoms,
She appears — his silent blight.

A creature of his own mind,
Born from dreams, both dark and bright,
He’s not always glad to see her,
Yet he plays this game each night.
And only the white night’s hush
Can offer him a shield,
But habit holds him captive —
In sleep’s embrace he’s never sealed.

He sips his tea, alone in kitchen,
Fingers tremble, smoke ascends;
With the first light of new morning,
Her silhouette with candle ends.
How the morning drags its burden,
How the day in slowness bends —
Yet the evening’s cloak returns again,
And his bed, untouched, still waits, unmended.

The night won’t let him rest,
And he’d trade all he owns,
For the peace of early slumber,
And dawn’s gentle undertones.
Such is life’s eternal rhythm —
Moonlight through the pane once more,
As the evening’s spell commences,
She returns… as she did before.