a "rather good" ten-line poem.

Insomnia
Gazing from the window of my icy tower room,
The wind counts the minutes of the time I have borrowed,
Recoil into the conch of my dark thoughts, I take comfort in the happy gloom,
And contemplate how the hours will be wasted tomorrow.
I pace the floor, fitfully, left, right, left, right,
Striving to drive the unsympathetic list of names from my head,
Onwards I march, enduring till morning, the relentless night.
In my mind, I walk with Graves, hand-in-hand amongst the dead,
Boys, all boys, far too young to join in death’s deceitful dance,
Only God can tell why none were given a second chance.

disclaimer: i myself do not claim that this poem is 'rather good'. that was a dear friend of mine, who thinks it's fun to pinch my rear when we're both drunk.