Witching Hour

Original Photography retrieved from upsplash.com by Annie Spratt @anniespratt
Dusk falls.
This brush crumbles beneath me.
Confoundingly restless
As if slumber is obstructed
Yet I depend on it.
My eyes wander,
In this dark shaped sphere.
Slumped on somber 
Tunes, which set the mood.
The vibe is harsh,
Hectic and
It’s strange,
How I cringe beneath these brillo sheets.
The clock strikes tick-tick.
Half the number of the fallen one.
Who sits within my closet hunched
And calling for me.
A scream, as serene as a sirens
Song taunts my beckon call.
My skin crawls.
His mirthless smile 
Daunts my mind with
Thoughts of suicide and rumors.
Though I’m foolish
I’m not used to this,
Nor accustomed to these
Ludicrous ideas.
I’m loosing it I feel.
A lack of sleep is evident.
Depression has its way of messing with
Me effortlessly.
Testing me to
Push it to the limits
And I’ve done this
Far too many times.
I’m tired boss.
This anguish brings the worst out
Again with the fight or flight.
I value life but pain and spite
Are mixed despite my best efforts.
The devil looms as  
The witching hour brews.
But am I strong enough tonight
To strike
Against another endless cycle.

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