The Witching Hour

Restlessness haemorrhages heftily at my kleptomania

It’s a sinner’s cud I chew, ruminating as I am, on insomnia

The world outside me sleeps, draped in a white winter blackness

The world beneath me lies placid, morbid in its sullen sadness

Twists of fate and drops of hate glisten in the silvery moonlight

The shadows mock my wide eyed glare, hiding sense from sight

A cry shatters the silence, a shriek only my ears can hear

A vessel runs aground; causality’s casual cadence in crescendo somewhere near

And so I stare, goon eyed and glaring, playing tag with the daring

Into a mist that engulfs my sanity, stabbing at my plexus with its swirl

Gnashing at my nerves, pampering my discord, twisting with its every curl

The witching hour is upon me now, and I’m held captive to its antagonism

Irate and innate she hammers vociferously away, deaf to dissent, deaf to cynicism

And so to fate I commit my plight, to the hope of a time when all is all right

Tis but hope so faint, so quaint, so lame, so cold on this vicious night.


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