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# Victorian
- URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/victorian/
- Published: 2021-12-13T12:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2021-12-13T12:00:00.000Z
- Description: insomnia, my eyelids firmly closed but sleep remains elusive as a mouse I must give up at last, and barely clothed I wander through the carcass of my house
- Author: A. Gee
- Tags: Poetry, Allpoetry Import, #Import 2026-04-25 19:56

insomnia, my eyelids firmly closed  
but sleep remains elusive as a mouse  
I must give up at last, and barely clothed  
I wander through the carcass of my house

a creaky floorboard bends, a soulful moan  
the floor, at least, acknowledges my plight  
the wind draft on my skin, I'm not alone  
cold fingers probing, promising delight

the Cinderella staircase takes me down  
the center hall where eminences danced  
their faces wearing masks that must not frown  
the hostess having left no thing to chance

the eerie glow of streetlamps permeates  
where candles spread their warmth so long ago  
the library, for gentlemen debates  
cigars and whiskey -- if you're in the know

ah, here's the kitchen, smells of ham and toil  
and well worn wooden countertops, knives out  
the stains of countless cooking wines, and oil  
an empty pitcher thirsty for some stout

back up the stairs, the pictures on the wall  
well meaning captures of forgotten smiles  
the promises we've made after our fall  
remain unkept despite our many miles

my bed unmade, I try to sleep again  
oh god, please tell me: will this ever end?  
please grant me sleep, I'll sleep like I slept then  
the ceiling's staring back at me, no friend

I scan the room for something to distract  
my jumbled stream of consciousness rebels  
the shadows ready for their final act  
it'll take the sun to overcome their spells

some shredded wrapping paper, left by us  
from packaging the wages of our sin  
the fireplace is lit, St. Nicholas  
will have to find a safe one to climb in

my feet back on the floor, it's of no use  
I might as well get up and do some work  
the white flag raised, and though it should refuse  
insomnia accepts it, with a smirk

the bathroom's cold, the mirror covered up  
and just as well, in no mood to reflect  
the faucet's dripping, and the toothbrush cup  
is empty but is waiting to collect

---

**Author notes:** I wrote this poem during about of insomnia. Literally got up at 3AM and put it all down. I'd like to think that I got across some of the quiet desperation of that moment, and was able to create a genuine mood