What formless monster
keeps me awake such inhuman hours,
robbing me of peaceful sleep?
Will this beast inside me
never let me be?
(Will I never put this pencil down?)
Where in this earthly incarnation
is there real satisfaction?
Could this be what the beast is after?
I hear the words of Peer Gynt
reverberating in my intentions:
To thy own self Troll,
my sagging eyes
watch my hand give silent expression
to the dumb gargoyle
that I am-
to this twisted creature of the mind
crouching within my subconscious.
When the hour grows late,
the fiend grows weary of his
and begins to rattle the bars,
forcing my hand
in a coat of human skin.
(11- 4- 77)
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