Insomnia

In restless nights, beneath the moon's soft glow,
 A dance of shadows, whispers that echo,
 Insomnia lurks, casting its cruel spell,
 Unleashing dreams that never quite compel.
 Through darkened rooms, elusive sleep elopes,
 
 And in its absence, the mind wildly gropes,
 Thoughts entangled, like vines on a trellis,
 A symphony of chaos, a sleepless mistress.
 The weight of weariness, a heavy shroud,
 As rest's sweet sanctuary remains unbowed,
 Minutes tick like hours, time whispers its jest,
 While insomnia, relentless, will not rest.
 In solitude's embrace, tangled in sheets,
 The night's grip tightens, the soul near depletes,
 Silent screams of exhaustion ache and throb,
 As sleep's elusive grasp just softly sobs.
 But in the depths of this insomniac's plight,
 A glimpse of beauty, a sliver of light,For in the darkness, art begins to bloom,
 Unleashing the creative wildfire's fume.
 Insomnia, the poet's eternal muse,
 Through sleepless realms, inspiration accrues,
 In wakeful nights, worlds are spun and woven,
 From the threads of dreams, a symphony's token.
 So, let insomnia be a bittersweet friend,
 A harbinger of words that never end,
 For in its wake, creativity thrives,
 In sleep's absence, the poet's soul survives.