poem about poisoned sleep

From a liminal space —a world between worlds— Doom’s empty gaze fixes upon me. He takes great delight in knowing I see him; I close my eyes to think about the first time I met Doom: On a sleepless night, then-rare, no amount of sheep counting or sleeping draught worked, for as I now know, Doom has power to poison sleep. Even with eyes clamped shut, sleep eluded me for Doom was here. His footsteps…