It's been sixty days
Since the black sky opened up the food-gates
Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds

Held back any
Recollection
Of the bloodshed
Somehow

And now
This unending rain
Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves
Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague

This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note
I've become something even less than a ghost
Even more of a though, I've become a mirage
I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame
I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague