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.
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