Insomnia

Nothing is so cold as half-spent rage.
Dismiss
apology as little more than vague
refrain
offered while the chorus leaves the stage.
Release
the pent-up inner storm where masquerade
as rain
the tears that might have made us more than this.

Still, her sleeping rhythm speaks kindly
in the dark,
and the silver moontide through the blinds
revives
a hope of healing, though it leave behind
a scar,
yet another wound, like all its kind,
survived.
The best we do is not the best we are.