The Fifth Wall

Awake, the words are swirling in a maelstrom
and fighting off the sentences they're given.
Insomnia, that's where I get these tales from.
Fall into bed, in hopes to be forgiven,
if only for one night, but no reprieve.
Past midnight, I am staring at the ceiling,
and struggling: to give or to receive,
then try the sentence one more time, with feeling.
A volta flashes, an unlikely spark,
exhaustion, or a touch of inspiration?
Whatever, I'm still lying in the dark,
and truth be told, awash in perspiration.
A blink, and I pass out, sleep gave no warning.
The writing down will have to wait till morning.