How do I hate insomnia? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My slumber refuses to reach, when sleep seems out of sight.
For the end of being awake is my ideal grace.
I hate thee to the highest level at every day’s end.
My quiet need is to sleep when the sun gives way to candle-light.
I hate thee freely, my strife at night.
I hope this purely is just a phase.
I long with a passion to put to use
My old pillow and with my dreamy faith.
I hate thee with a hatred for all seems lost.
With my lost hours of sleep. I miss the gentle breath
Of a restful slumber all my life; and, if God choose,
I would at last fall asleep and not feel like the zombie of death.
(With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
Okay, it’s not really a sonnet. Not even close. Nor is it all that great as a piece of poetry but hey, what do you expect from a sleep-deprived zombie?