They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.

Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.

There's a mystery that clings to him,
One the poet cannot name,
A secret in the way he moves—
A puzzle without a frame.

They wonder at his stillness,
How he's never worn thin,
But it's not the lack of sleep—
It's the peace he carries within.

And here I am, caught in the same web,
Wondering if it's my own mind at stake,
Is this the toll of sleepless nights,
Or something more—something I can't shake?