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Nocturne for Insomnia
Nocturne for Insomnia
Ding-dong, Ding-dong, hear the 10-o’clock bells ring.
The day is over, darkness reigns,
The moon hangs high, shining its pale white light.
Lights go off, cars pull into garages.
Parents tuck in their children, and the houses are silent.
Ten o’clock passes, and eleven quickly comes.
All around town, the streets are silent.
Everyone is asleep, the land is muted.
But for some, sleep never comes,
Taunted by cruel Morpheus,
They are the Insomniacs.
Bong-bong-bong, hear the solemn midnight bells knell.
For the Insomniacs, it signals the beginning of their evening hell.
Like the others, they lie in silence, their houses inconspicuous.
They hope, they pray, that this is the lucky day,
Which they might get a good night’s sleep.
They’ve been trying for an hour, using all of their power,
To wait for the sleep that never arrives.
Midnight departs, 1 AM arrives.
It is a threshold that signals a restless night.
Seething with frustration, blood pounding in their heads,
They peer at their clocks, and become more frantic with every passing minute.
1:11. 1:27. 1:35. 1:38. 1:41. 1:57, ‘Why am I not yet asleep?’
They wonder, with agitation, why they are not snoozing like the rest.
Surely, it is the dim orange light from the streetlight,
Seeping slowly through the thick black curtains.
Certainly, it is the slow drone of the refrigerator downstairs,
Or the occasional whisper of the breeze outside—
One o’clock passes, and it becomes two.
Their insanity deepens: it gnaws away at their brains
Like a mouse nibbling at cheese.
Their minds spin, their brains scream,
Reeling at the prospect of another restless night.
Frantic with worry, they think of solutions to end their plight.
Books? TV? A midnight snack? It’s 2:42,
And they have nothing to lose;
They leap out of bed, frenzied to try a forceful resolution.
It’s 3:47, and reading didn’t help.
How ironic, that books are soporific in the day for these people,
And become just the opposite in the evening.
With every word, their minds are stirred,
After every page, their eyes grow bigger.
Noticing that they are still awake, they decide
It is time for a different approach.
It’s 6:07, and any attempts at sleep were decidedly futile.
The sun is rising, animals are crying.
Alarm clocks go off, and people open their eyes, yawning.
Garage doors open, cars go out.
Streetlights turn off, and are replaced by the glowing orb in the east.
It was a tranquil night, but not for some.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, hear the dawn bells sing,
With bags under their eyes, and an exhale of relief,
The Insomniacs rise from their evening tribulations.
This will certify that the above work is completely original--- David Liu