...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 17


My mind is all a muddle, and my days

Have lost their nights to all my endless wak-

Ing, thinking, mulling over in my frayed

And frazzled brain. I think, I sigh, I pray

For revelation or for sleep, but all

I get is all the echoes, bouncing loud

Inside my head. Oh how I’d like to fall

Asleep, or find some peace, among this crowd

Which is myself and all my thoughts. Instead

I lay here, watching shadows, drift with time

Across the ceiling, waiting here in bed.

Exhausted, but unable to unwind.

Perhaps, to write will lead to dreams, and then

To sleep. Perhaps I'll lull me with this pen.

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