Poem — INSOMNIA

 

Inky blooms spread

And lighten

And blacken again

Beneath the false blind

Of my eyelids

 

The pyrotechnics spark,

Going off

In mocking celebration

Of my descent

To slumber

 

Like an elevator

Going down,

There are many floors

Between the top

And delicious bottom

 

The sound of nothing

In stereo,

Trilling symphonically

Filling the room

And my head

 

I frequent a place below

Consciousness,

With walls made of a stuff

So very delicate

A thought will crack it.

*

Alma Mobly is a writer living inside a small space in a small town; but filled with big ideas.