Sleep will not come,
Not the usual variety .
Awake a fortnight,
Fatigue drags me deeper
Into a fog—
I like the fog .
Living in a cloud,
Relaxing more as it thickens,
An opaque barrier, soft .

Woolgather,
No longer conscious :
Magical ;
Floating away on weather
Into the troposphere,
Rising cold ;
Missing no one at all .

Mist on the undressed window :
Condensation—
Rain me down .
Not even the thunder wind,
Nor flashing bolts
Break the trance ;
Evaporation—
Another fogbank .