Sleepless

I can’t sleep and so I write poetry;
Words spill on the pillow
And fall off the bed
To the cold ground;

A path they create, and I follow,
Blinded by tears
Of joy? Of pain?
Tell me, what have I found?

I can’t sleep and so I write poetry;
My voice flies towards the moon:
Am I even alive?
Should I die soon?

I can’t sleep and so I write poetry;
Words fill the air
As I suffocate,
My throat filled with voices;

What are they saying, why are they there,
Calling from nothing,
Unborn? Dead?
What are my choices?

I can’t sleep and so I write poetry;
For those who want to speak
In tongues I don’t know;
Latin, Old Norse, Ancient Greek

I can’t sleep and so I write poetry;
Words form in my soul
As I whisper
A sound, a sentence, quiet prayer;

For you, for me, the world, whole,
Am I a sailor
Or a pilgrim,
An old witch, a kingslayer?