Crazed with fatigue; behind burning eyelids,
I address Insomnia, face to face with filigree cunning bid;
Leave me be, tomorrow you may have your way with me.
He turns to hide his mirth behind a hand
and throws me a worry; did I pay the maid?
For a mischievous moment he allows Morpheus the stage,
I slip, slowly; so sublime.
But! ohsosudden! I’m sliding, falling!
I sit up with a start,
panic throbs a voodoo drumbeat in my blood.
I turn to him, in the watery smirk of the fridge door,
Well then, what’s your pleasure?