The Sleepless

For the insomniac

Words can get sleepless too,
when you’re singing lullaby for them

in your heart, and keeping a close lipped smile.
The pages are open across the table,

the sentiments are as fluid as the gel ink
from the supermarket. They all wait for the 

right moment, the moment when the poet
sleeps and the pen works alone in silent moonlight.

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