Witching Hour

Draw closer
and don't let go
I need comfort
for the nightmares.

Lost imaginations
relics of thought and emotion
plunged into the depths
of precognition
for fear they may rise up again.

Every night,
the deep, deafening
tolling of bells
trumpeters of doom
thick,
threatening laughter,
emanating from spaces unseen

It calls out,
and weeps.
Begging incessantly.

Hands clutch skull
pressure creates panic
sounds rising up
in empty spaces
where none should exist.
Culminating at last
time telling of twelves.

Sound empties,
all ends,
left at last in peace.
A hour passes
perhaps more
normalcy returns

But never for long.

Nearing the end
the first hour wains
fear is rushing back.
Iron and bronze
sick and twisted gut
mind burdened again

I looked into the abyss
and couldn't look away
I look into the abyss
and it looks back
and smiles.

Draw closer
and don't let go
I need comfort
for the nightmares.