Art galleries filled with an afternoon sun,

too shimmery to be seen,

too daytime to be appreciated.

 

I wish, I could paint my insomnia,

and fit it into a dark frame

where it would die out of the habitat.

Like it murdered my sleep,

since these years.

 

I see similarities,

with the people

in the paintings

being fluent in contemplating.

 

Am I too caged in an invisible frame?

I ask myself.

 

Changing the palatte,

didn’t help.

How it would?

When I find comfort

in the dark.