To be so haunted as yesterday, last night really,
It all comes down to insomniac predicament.
Phantasms come and go like moths in the night
When awake awake awake and no one else is.
You see ghosts and hear prophecies,
None of them real or true or anything
But terrifying anyway, and to shrink
In terror, seized by sudden fantasy
Is commonplace to us. Still, waking up
Seeing journal notes writ in desperate hand.
Unsent texts shouting for help and all such things
Everyone doubtless thinks we’re all drunks.
Drunk, intoxicated probably, not by drink
But by lack of sleep, rest even, that crowds out
Any chance of rational thought night after night
After day. Today, a real ghost kissed my eyes.