Concrete eyelids rise slowly up and down
like droopy window shades.
The head is heavy, yet light at the same time
and the darkness seeps in, ink
from a fountain pen, blotting everything out
of sight. The ears relax
in the silence that surrounds the bed and fills
the room with void.
The breath slows in rhythm to the cadence
of the heart beat.
Muscles become limp- arms, legs, neck, hands.
The spine sinks into
the mattress like a fork into the gravy lake
at the very top
of a mountain of firm mashed potatoes.
The mind wanders
off in a dozen different directions as dreams
begin to overwhelm
the now slipping world of the conscious mind.
It is in this state that you
can often find the real me, flat out or curled up,
enjoying what can at times
be so very elusive for one with chronic insomnia,
soaking it in, never getting
enough for one night neither with nor without the pills.