the deepening ground

Here’s a short poem I worked on throughout the month of March but never got around to posting. I honestly can’t imagine what it’s like to struggle with insomnia. I’ve never had difficulty falling asleep nor have I been plagued by night thoughts. Sure, I’ve had a few nights where, in the heat of the soccer season, I’ve been troubled by missed opportunities or game strategies as a coach. But those nights are few and far between.

This poem addresses a deeper issue: the inability, and perhaps even the unwillingness, to dream (and I don’t just mean what happens when we enter REM sleep). It’s a symptom of our age, driven by instant gratification and a failure to value those things which truly matter (and take time and effort), especially in the light of eternity. When we’ve become content with “imposter life” and “the technologies that undo our capacities to think” (Neil Postman), then we have sold our souls for nothing more than a bowl of porridge or pocketful of sawdust.

Insomniacs
by Vincent H. Anastasi 2026

We do not dream:
our make believe
is manufactured,
fractured into a loosely
stitched scroll that endlessly unfurls —
white flag surrender,
counterfeit tender
of imposter life.

We can not dream:
our lives disturbed
by daytime nightmares
that scare all the rest away;
artificial visions leave us
wholly exhausted,
our souls accosted
by imposter life.

We will not dream:
our hearts unmoved
by bushes afire;
we aspire to nothing
more than chasing after the wind;
we willingly pay
the price for the way
of imposter life.

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