Poem By Malcolm Evison

A type
of Gethsemane.
Not so much the pain
more the agony.

Not the absence
of sleep –
more the ache;

an ache which penetrates
each sinew. If only
one had slept

like others do.
Oh, how you’d love
that luxury. Wait

for the next event –
everything burns,
each pore secretes
anxiety. Has it

all come to this?
Who knows
what follows
the restless night.

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