On a still, black, lonely night I sit here again awake. Sleep, a distant will o’ the wisp, Tempting me with gossamer wings, Only to whisk away again, leaving me unsatisfied With his flighty embrace. I don’t feel resentful, just dopey, Yet unable to settle. My mind isn’t racing, just up and about, When it should be curled up In its little nest like a good little brain.

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