sometimes I think these eyes of mine,
they like to lie awake and stare at no particular nothing
until the very break of dawn,
when I get to know my ceiling,
and I call that the brooding hour,
though it’s more like six or seven of ‘em.

sometimes, I think these eyes of mine
were born to see things they shouldn’t see,
and know things they shouldn’t know,
but that’s the way of the world, isn’t it?
coming here in unwanted places
where even my lamp begs its light be turned on,
and the ants on my wall can hear my fan snoring loudly,
pretending desperately to sleep through its night; my day.
their little ant feet scampering on cold concrete –
not my home but their festering colony,
its world nonstop, for when did a bug need sleep?
when, oh God, was I caught in this metamorphosis,
and how, I pray, may I escape this waiting wake?

sometimes, I think these eyes of mine, these eyes of mine
simply haven’t seen enough to be convinced
that I am one of them.