Woe betide the insomniac when night fall beckons.
Up the stairs, a drowsy head that will not hush and weary bones that find no respite on the horizontal plane.
Duvet and pillow down, with pin-prick precision drive their feathered ends, like thorns in flesh
And bound as if Prometheus, the torments of the ticking clock, peck like an eagle lest sleep should come.
Woe betide the wide-awake – at bedtime
Written for Five Sentence Fiction – Bedtime