witching hour

i. three thirty three

every night i wake up at the same hour

with a taste in my mouth, so sour,

hauntings in my mind - a power

i cannot control.

as if summoned by my soul

the darkness sinks me into a hole

of my own mind palace, cold

touch of spirit into gory brains.

the being slips into my veins

and transports me, growing pains

flood back, decaying my remains;

corpse a gift for It to devour.

ii. will-o’-the-wisp

l. superstition

knock

my teeth out with words

carefully planned to sting

once and it shall

knock on

you twice as hard

by the grace of ghostly fate

if this crimson spell bursts but

knock on wood thrice

and we’ll both be safe,

cocoon of blankets against

the storm of my mind space.

ll. out the window

outside blowing, inside burning;

rainstorm, hurricane, purity pouring:

relief washes over me like acid,

earthly scent of april showers

outside blowing, inside burning;

firestorm ash, calamity scalding:

the windowpane rumbles and shuts you

out, aflame amidst wet meadows

outside blowing, inside burning

until the curtain falls.

lll. fear

the wind is long gone

yet the sight of you torments me still

as your nails scratch what my hands grasp, one

chalkboard line screeching across the windowsill

(knock, knock, knock)

am i staring at the mirror?

does the bulbous fuming beast still linger?

lV. do your hear that?

do or die, the moment of climax;

you claw your way out of the mirror,

hear my strangled gasp for air

that never comes.

do or die, the moment of rewind;

you leave for good as the ghost of me,

hear my knuckles on the wood

that casts our last goodbye.

iii. earth, crying out

drenched in cold sweat

with splatters of icicles you shed;

grasses green now brown, wet

liquified horror, candy apple red;

fire fills my lungs, gasping in regret

at the fuel spent as means to an end.

if this eternal nausea is what is left

of the ungrateful life you’ve led,

may apocalipse rise with the sunset

and lay you to rest in this broken bed.