Insomnia on Soul

When over the void I fly,

inner, into the depth of my mind,

a pinch of distress I find.


As bended knives, a psyche on cries,

and it seeks a spiritual promise,

for an “R.I.P.” to my eyes.


My ceiling seems so far away,

and the thoughts in vain,

rhyming this poem of decay.


The eyelids of my soul drenched,

in nothing more than a desert,

one that, only I have searched.


Procreating for this coma; the thirst,

while the mourning is pondering,

for wisdom and waters to desist.


When over the void I lay,

innermost, into the pits of my past,

an opus of disgrace I cry.




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