The sounds of the morning aren’t whispery thin;
They intrude through my walls while the light is still dim.
They’re calling and singing and ending the night,
Although they care little for my sleepless plight.
Insomnia cripples this poor tortured mind;
It wonders in vain of when it may find
Sweet respite; the nectar found in slumber;
When everything fades as notice goes under.
Oh early bird, must you get the worm?
While I lay in my bed, laying restless and squirm
Until maybe, just maybe, a stupor kicks in;
It’s a quarter past five, as the light starts to creep in.
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