Insomnia

Are drugs necessary for a tortured soul? Is indecision capable of replacing a needle; self-doubt substitute’s chemicals and lack of an obsession replaces a drained bottle of whiskey propped against an outdated copy of TV Guide. The questions pondered while your head lay against a crisp pillow, tainted colors of Halloween, orange of the tungsten street lamp outside interrupted with shadows of contrasting black. The fever-induced promises you made to yourself, while hallucinating manifestations of your inner demons, lie crumpled next to the self realization that all is for nothing. Breezes sneak through the window carrying the chilling allure of purity, wickedly spice the skin. The assurance of youth waits in the ashes to rise during the next bout of inspiration that seems centuries ago. Insinuation of sleep like a cracked cough held against glass, the covers and waking dreams of salvation pulled tightly against you.