Restless Hours of Darkness

Late in the hours of darkness; sleep will not come.
Your heart thumps faintly like a hand on a drum.
The noiseless night is serene, still, and clear,
Your body is weary, but your mind’s still in gear.

You stare off a while, then toss and turn,
Why isn’t slumbering a matter you can learn?
You close your eyes, but there is no sleep.
Your blankets lie crumpled in a restless heap.

Finally, you drift off—to a place you always go,
Soft wispy grass, feathery clouds—a meadow.
The wind is strong, but not unpleasant at all.
Leaves blow around you, and trees stand tall.

The colors are vivid, the place is so sweet.
Here you are alone, dancing on your feet.
You twirl around; the grass brushes your legs.
The sky turns orange; a mockingbird begs.

The heavens begin to fade, and so does the land.
The luminous mist transforms into sand.
Your face begins to sting, your throat turns raw.
Your vision is blurred, and you clench your jaw.

You awaken with a rigid pound in your chest.
Your eyes open wide; your dream was a jest.
The room is still dark; your bed is a jumble.
Again, the fight to sleep starts with a mumble.