I forget how much poetry I have stored away. I figured I'd post one with nothing to do with insomnia, so I picked one of my more recent ones. I believe I wrote this after one of my “where-did-my-youth-go-and-why-do-I-feel-old” musings. It's hard to explain what exactly those are, so instead, here's that poem:
Whence comes the fall of innocence?
What puzzle box must be opened to usher
The lovely gloaming that is corruption
Into a once naïve and tender soul?
Is it the first tangle of fleshy bodies?
The wrath and wonder of first love
In all its glory of grotesque formation
That strips the virgin of her piousness?
Is it when eyes are first cast upon death?
The pallor of the departed in glassy pupils
Staining the bereaved with solemnity
Which entangles the mind with mortality?
Whence comes the salvation of this ideal
If redemption is at all attainable?
Is it the destruction of romantic expectations?
Those once held so firmly in regard
Revealed to be fallible and vulnerable
That takes the perfection one sees in others?
Is it when famine and disease flourish?
When one’s desire to aide the suffering
Is thwarted by high mountains and seas
That delves one into existential depression?
Whence comes the fall of innocence?
The metamorphosis of the pure to the imbued
The defining moment of one’s psyche
That rite of passage into the uncertain?
Whence comes the fall of innocence
If it belies the human mind at all?