Insomnia

 Nights like this make me look at the lights.
Glaze.
I haven’t stopped glaring at the bright, heavenly bulbs as they dangle from the ceiling above. A smile graces itself on my narrowed face and pale, starving cheek bones. The light of the day is good.
I’ll be just fine.
Now in this prison I have seen the light they at least give us, a small bulb in the hallowed land that is an empty room. The light reminds us there is a tomorrow, but even the light can’t prevent me from staring at the darkness outside the window.
The moon speaks for the outside world of night.
The most precious light of them all.
One day I will travel to this distant place. Not in body in spirit as I let the darkness consume me. The lost fail to see the light of the moon as they sleep. The insomniacs will wonder and wonder for the peak of the sun rising, which is quite a moment as well.
Here I wait.