Insomnia.

I am drawn to the moon.
When it rises, I howl like
a ratchet werewolf and
envision that I am pouncing
through a majestic, nefarious
wonderland. I cannot resist
laying angelically beneath
the nebula’s and the milky
ways, hypnotized by their
alluring beauty, exhaling
a methanol cigarette’s
smoke to the hurricanes
underneath Jupiter’s
rings and noxious gases.
My muse, in a frenzy,
cannot become sober,
for it is intoxicated with
irrationality and wickedness.
Perhaps I am drawn to
the nighttime sky because
it elevates and animates
my spirit as its best and
floods self-pity that
transitions into solacing
at its worst.