I've noticed that
I have a newfound
love (masked hatred, envy)
for clocks.
All of the time
in the world;
all of the
fucking time:
to make mistakes,
to fix said mistakes,
to live while those mistakes
are simply stored at
a previous number
on the cycle.
However, my mind's
internal clock
is eternally
ticking,
ticking away
at the witching hour.
Distressed demons'
power is at its most
lethal.
The folklore and
mythical beasts
perpetuated
by those who walked
before us -
all thrive during
the witching hour.
Fortunately for I,
my clock is broken.
Unfortunately, it's
forever broken
at 3:59.
And you were
the only oil
suitable for the
rusted gear.
Perennially being
haunted by the
howls and whispers.
The whispers
are the cruelest.
Their breath
devilishly tickles
your ears,
oh-so softly.
As if they were
trying to comfort you.
And you notice them
visiting so frequently,
that even
the most maleficent devils,
the most distressed spirits,
the trickiest goblins,
the darkest unknowns
lurking about,
feel comforting.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
