The Insomnia

Pasithea, 33 a goddess weaves the fountain of slumber but never drowns herself within it. she riles at her clear coherence, the viscosity of requiema honey-filled capsule of pride swallowed with distain, yet with honour, she has forgotten. a monocular mind the millionth spoken-aloud sentence a liquid-essence of skin glossed over star-lit skies, a north-star's clutch her prismatic pearls of iridescence she claims acceptanceoh tiger tiger has burnt the twilight owl's tender solace unfrightening, she claims it brightly - oh mellow splendour has overspilled my consciousness, my hallucinatory nectar she is restless. overtired. exhausted. a sun-lit tiger prances up the next morning. she decides,

I shall weave my fountain of slumber and drown wonderfully tomorrow night.