Insomnia. I open the window.

In the abyss of starry solitude.

It is restless the peace and a feeling

Of no time going from the moon to nothingness.

Is this the instrument of a sinister god

Of submitting me in figurative death?

Astral silence. Static torment

In eternal insomnia that inspires the still time.

An agonizing octopus sucks my blood.

Marginating my delirious thought

Specters of prostitutes on the boulevard.

My eyelids are heavy.  The idea of falling asleep

is rotting. The day already clears

On a tender branch of the tree of life.