Hitchcock's Cure

On the trite result of a sleepless night.

Insomnia infects
what little's
left
of night.

(Left Right
Below,
the morning waits.
away.)

It winds it's way
into workings
of the clock--

--Tick, Tock.--

Twists the gears
in perpetual cycles.

Rhymeless,
Nameless,
Ageless.

Less of what would be
The bitter day.

And Darkness still.

Still, quiet, numb.

Now all is frozen, save youthful time.
Who, left alone, explores

the sordid depths.