Insomniac

Their hands steal time. I'm barely aware Half in this world and half in the next, A ghost with a beating heart. Why do the hollows of your face catch the light? Because the jaded moon-sun burns through the pretense, until you are glass. Stars are strung like ornaments, flickering on parade, for players without a pulse. Those deep final gasps ignore me, This in-somnolence possesses me. As I await the thaw of dawn, To welcome the farewell of ink painted frost.