Insomnia

The light resigns,
like the honor of a decorated soldier
who just lost the war,
those ribbons and medals
losing colour to the overcast.

And that empty moon,
how it shines like a coin
at the bottom of a well,
or a lost marble in the
corner of a basement.

It looks lost, is a mirror to the solitude of man.

And nobody's coming for it.

The sky is black and starless,
as silent as a withdrawn friend.

As if the wind
that thrashes like a drunk
weren't enough,
man himself refuses the night.

In his galaxy of thoughts,
there's just one more piece of missing knowledge
and a million imperfections to worry over—

up until the wheelbarrow of ideas
becomes too heavy to push.