That of the birds

The first thing I wrote, after my first close loss.

Sleep will not greet me,
though I feel him close by.

The more I seek,
the harder to find.

I wake from no slumber,
eyes wider I guess.

Ideas of genius,
race through my head.

It's curious now - so many sounds become clear.
The A road to bury has never felt so near.

My own breathe sounds alien,
so strange when so late.

But the worst sound of all,
is that of the birds.