You toss and turn with frustration
until you think you might go insane,
if you thought you had to stare at the moulding ceiling once more
just to pass the hours until the sun breaks its confines.
And you know you're bored stiff when
even the backs of your eye lids look interesting.
And the colours that flicker there
like nymphs or magical fairies,
in wisps of rainbows,
encased in inky darkness,
a mystical fantastical vision
where your mind lifts you up in a whirlwind of imagination.
Then an ominous red spot appears,
clouding the dancing figures
ending their majestic routine.
And it is now with intensified effort,
your now heavy lids drag open;
to see the sun
rising above the horizon.
To laugh at your tired eyes.