Flower of Insomnia

The flower of my insomnia
blossoms on the back of a clock
it grows in the soil of a family cancer
it flowers like I’m buried alive
as though a heavy snowfall
thaw to bright air and exhale its pain
a shred of rest wavering in spirit wind
the flower of my insomnia
a Venus flytrap for my blood cells
feeding my anxiety back to me
my night inspiration and inward light
that lack a season
the Queen of flowers
the white rose of the black hours
the death mask of Keats with petals open

Salvatore’s Hell

My insomnia is getting absurd. It is purely literary. I lay in bed reciting lines of poetry from Keats, Shelley, Donne, Wordsworth, Hart Crane: “Insistently through sleep– a tide of voices– They meet you listening midway in your dream…” Now I know those lines by Crane are literal. My insomnia is like a poem being written in black space. It is like a poem that wants to be translated into light. It is like a feeling that grips my intestines with linked verses and won’t let go.