insomnia's delight

He tosses and turns in his bed as his lover insomnia prolongs the night's solemn visage. With his consciousness she wrestles nightly, forcing him to hear her madness and the hush that falls all around, it lies thick and heavy in the air. Slowly it comes to him, the realization that the world is cold and sterile, an unsavoury place.

The night singles out his loneliness, magnifies his loss of perception. Clothed in darkness and its deceptions, he is isolated. A frame that his vulnerability cannot hide in and so he tries to dream, to transcend his physical form, to find solace in the colours of his thoughts. His dreams a masquerade of his own design, his mind's little deceit to hide from the cold, lonely night.

Though this night even his dreams he is denied, no refuge from her grasp. His soul screams for light, for reprieve, its own all but gone cold. Its barriers all but worn from her constant assault. He looks away from her. He looks for focus.

He looks to the moon, he can see she is beautiful, a beautiful thief mesmerizing with her light taken from the sun and so he looks away to see the stars. They offer little comfort, their light kept selfishly so far away. Teasing with their faint twinkle like the wink of a flirtatious girl from across the room.

He is reviled, insomnia his vituperator. Sickened by his lack of visual escape he turns away from the heavens, resigned to his fate. He thinks perhaps rest will come on the wings of the dawn. Perhaps then he may slumber. She whispers to him again feeding his madness, still he can't deny her beauty and her genius. In her own way she has made him who he is, she has coloured him. Till rest comes his way he stares into the void of another dreamless night, his thoughts abstract, twisting beyond this mortal coil. This is insomnia's delight.