Sometimes our ilk, we cannot sleep
And for days sometimes we wonder about,
Minds meandering to, fro, in and out
At lightning speed - our ilk, which the witching hour keeps.
The moon has it's way of waking up
What we in daylight seem somehow to miss.
Deprived of pillow talk's tender goodnight kiss,
I feel it's time to find a bullet to bite and brown my cup.
As for desires of mine, first is dawn's crawl commencing,
Last is the alarm clock's beep and hateful hissing,
Not to mention a waking vacant and an absent lust.
As for regrets, there are yet few save worry,
For we sleepless prophets do lose soundness in a hurry,
But the perfect kissing couple seems a mattress and a dusk.
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