Insomnia Plague

It's been sixty days
Since the black sky opened up the flood-gates
Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds
Held back any recollection of the bloodshed

Somehow and now
This unending rain
Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves
Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague

And this is what he wrote in the ripped-up note:
I've become something even less than a ghost
Even more of a thought, I've become a mirage
I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame
I'm the white wall swallowing on the window frame

Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague