Cry me to Sleep

Insomnia settles in like the Pilgrims,
colonizing my mind, utilizing all it's worth,
wearing it down to a pit of disturbances.
Restless thoughts wrestle my senses,
intertwining in and about my mind's eye
until it's blind with incapacity.
Sleep is for the weak.
Sleep is for the tired.
I am both, yet sleep is not for me.
My sheep have run out. I counted them
forwards and backwards until the shepherd
herded them back for the next struggling
mattress dweller who counts his way to eternity.