Posted: October 12, 2013 in Poetry

Stone-dark at the witching hour;

a shallow-eyed thug restlessly turns

upon his hay mat.

Perhaps it is the darkness,

with it’s prying fingers

and it’s vortex-like state,

that forces his eyelids to stick, unfurled.

Perhaps it is the haunting sounds:

the hour inviting a nocturnal wind

to howl and snap branches off trees

that become broken companions;

the night pressing, enveloping the insomniac’s house

which pushes back, creaking and groaning.

A lack of stars who are restrained by clouds;

the moon turned black and waiting to be reborn.

These are the ghosts that scratch at the back of the man’s head,

bruising the expanse under his eyes.


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