Insomnia

Sometimes I lay awake at night
with not a single sheep in sight,
instead a hillside looms afar
like looking through an old glass jar.

Beside a misty scary wood
a curious scene, for there so stood
a tattered tower took to fell
beside a battered broken bell,
which did so boom, and oh quite clearly
did make that tower shake so dearly.
But no more merely was its boom
then the ringing now, that fills my room,
to settle down inside my head
and make me toss and turn in bed.

But clearly I must persevere
to stifle that of which I hear,
for if I wish to sleep just now
my dreams must come in force about
to fend me of this wretched bell
and quake this tower almost felled.

It plagues the patience of my sleep,
that ringing bell. It must not keep
its boom too close that tower there,
its stones so loose look worse for wear,
they just might slip from out their perch.
To lend that tower one last lurch,
my dreams come tremble it, until
the ground too shakes upon that hill
and topples that there tower down
upon that bell, twice broken now.

And thus my plight is swayed it seems
realizing I'm inside my dreams.
The tower tall, once dark and dreary
now fell, alas, my words grow weary
and finally beneath my sheet
I settle down to count the sheep.