In the back of my eyelids, the light forms scenes. With slumber met, this would equal dreams. Mine is to be no such luck, in a waking state I am stuck.
The scenes play out without much control, although I'm awake they choose how to unfold. The deprived mind derails, without sleep it never fails. Decompress, awake or not, the brain will rest, or begin to rot.
Traumas and heartache, worry for ones past. You can't change these things, but the memories are vast.
Until slumber once again holds me in it's arms outstretched. I shall sit here and watch the patterns, on my eyelids etched.