Jet Lag: a poem

My head feels like a broken pot,
My eyes lidded in lead.
By day I shamble like the living dead;
At night I toss and turn upon my cot.
A cruel lover, Sleep teases me, tempting me to bed.
But when Sleep is sought, She wont be caught,
Nor bargained with, or bought.
The breaking dawn fills me with dread.
Caffeine fuels the brighter hours,
Though it leaves me fraying at the seams,
But wine appears to have lost its powers
To help me find the land of dreams.
Flying, I've outpaced my clock;
Man, it seems, was meant to walk.

- Christian