Sleep is like a file that won’t download.
Sometimes it gives you hours to write an ode
While it hangs in the æther; other times
It smothers you in minutes with sublime
Repose. 

      At night the last thing you want’s an i-dea,
For that creates the basis of an ‘oh dear!’
No doubt when Tennyson, Shakespeare, Shelley or Keats
Were troubled with restlessness between the sheets
They’d toss off an ode, or on nights so bad
The candle ends might last to pen an aubade.
After an hour on my phone to think upon it
My thoughts have self-assembled as this sonnet.

     Would Petrarch think it worthy of his muse
To waste the plodding time when he could choose
To fly in empyrean realms, and there lose
Himself in reveries of his beloved’s kiss?
Ah, prosaic me, how much I miss
My pillow’s soft embrace and opiate bliss.