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Insomnia. A poem by Richard Jones, September 2011

Midnight on the bare mountain,

pressing flesh into stone,

seeking shelter from the wind

that slices to the bone,

facing down my fears

until the demon’s done.


Mid-day/night in anonymous cell.

The light always bright in my eyes,

so who can tell? I count the scratches

on the bloody wall, the ones that mark

each blow that landed, each time I fell,

each time you dragged me up, the smell

of your sweat, my fear now,

waiting for your footsteps’ warning fall,

running finger tips over cuts and grazes,

feeling bruises bloom and swell.


Midnight on the king-size bed,

Plenty room to toss and burn,

Time enough and more to listen

To the slow wheel’s turn.

For all Palestinians imprisoned ( the majority without trial ) by the Zionist state.

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