Another Friday night where sleep won’t come.
One per fortnight, reviewing what’s been done.
Tossing, to avoid turning.
Yearning, to avoid learning.
Turning at last for the pain in my heart.
Now, don’t think I’m waxing poetic,
It’s a physical pain of which I speak.
Desires of the heart
Left undone for too long
Have brought it on.
Don’t fret; it’s no heart attack.
© 2015 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 