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Nightingale Insomnia
The leaves are quite tonight
the winds have gone to lazy rest;
the moon steals a peak—
disinterested, reclines away
leaving the dark humid night lingering
and sleep becoming a stranger;
love making long gone—
even to self.
In a distant gaze,
a lone star twinkles
in the far high—
hope sighs—wishfully
age awaits the organism of morning
impregnating life anew—
chasing old dried dreams deferred
but not forgotten.
Weary orbs
yearn the coming sun.
Maybe tomorrow will sing
a new song; wooing its night
with slumbering peace.
