Witching Hour

The night is shattered into pieces

by Mocking Birds

and sirens,

daemons past and future.

 

My tinnitus rings in the same key as the crickets

warbled song.

 

3:00 AM: so many sounds competing for my attention

behind closed eyes.

 

The Witching Hour.

 

It’s both too late and too early.

 

The dead of night is bustling,

like the inside of my head.

 

Dancing rapid-fire

in black petticoats;

Whiling Dervishes.

 

Noises and thoughts bleed into one another

while slowly dying down,

painstakingly

transforming into a weighted blanket

flattening and blacking everything out.