The small hours are the longest for us last insomniacs,
Watching craneflies dance their waltz of death around the ceiling cracks.
Time is snarled up in the arms of the unmoving mantle clock,
Spinning fears like cats’ cradles, turning every outlawed lock.
But the boundless night feels nothing – it’s as empty and as coarse
As those experimental late night films from Bosnia, or worse,
And the dripping of the kitchen tap beats drumheads through the deep,
As the hour rows us further from the welcome shores of sleep.


12 responses to “Insomnia

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