The Sandman is eluding me, he’s now in absentia,
leaving me suffering, some type of sleep dementia.
My eyes remaining open, but my mind’s half sleeping,
sanity is eluding me, so I try a little housekeeping.
Why am I suffering this conscious state of being,
pondering why, my dreams are a fleeing?
Walking like a zombie, body and mind disconnecting,
wondering if I should take up a hobby, like stamp collecting.
Sitting at the table drinking coffee and eating sweets,
balancing my checkbook, too many grocery receipts.
The numbers are growing fuzzy, I can’t concentrate,
but the sun is a rising, no more sleeping; it’s too late.
Poem by David Andre Davison