The Witching Hour

Quietly falls the night somewhere
Somewhere a morning loses its way
As footsteps grow distant slowly
And shadows leave for corners moons away


The wishing well has regurgitated its pennies
The mirror stands tall with a gash
The wishing bone has remained unbroken
The clover grows four leaves no more


The hearth is cold with the fire gone
The creaking door, stilled with silence
While sand has lain with the footmarks
And on the clock its witching hour forevermore

Nevertheless

The morbid me
Reckless, hopeless
The hopeless me
Clueless, restless
The restless me
In duress, baseless
The baseless me
Affectless, faceless
The faceless me
Nevertheless, limitless


June 2011