This is Eoghan Lyng's reflection on the tiredness of sleep and the inane insomnia we all inhabit.
Yes, yes, there are beds
where sitting in or sleeping on
Phases you in a state unnatural,
there the head we shush
out of nothing, it knows nothing,
into the death mouth kips
folded impoverished sleep.
My sadness has but one name,
I know it well, I have time
to know the ins and outs
a malaise an incessant sky
can only hold in clouds,
who occelate the trembled bells
of tearful nights.
You want me to follow, but this
Is a night which I dare not go out
Or spiral myriadly inward to find
Yes, yes, it is me who must go,
Go to sleep.