insomnia, act 5.

the strings that lift my hands haven't quite frayed through
i can still flop them over the keyboard
a couple of times before they snap
and i flop down into the bed
like a useless jumble of painted wood

i still have the fist of consciousness
jammed up my behind,
propping me yet on the knee of wretched wakèdness
to play, beyond all reason, to an empty theatre

i'm a spectre, bathed in blue limelight
for the early to rise set to remark upon with a grimace
as they pass the window, huddled in their coats,
against the icy rain

and the sky is only just now getting light.