three a.m.

it’s said that the darkest hour is just before dawn,

but at 3 am I lay wide awake without so much as a yawn

midnight is still yesterday and 3 is still too far from daybreak

i’m alone with my muddled thoughts keeping me awake

i long for a narcosis to suck me under, make me comatose

but in the death of the night, the smothering darkness continues to prose

and a surfeit of shadows dance against the backdrop of night

personifying my grief, my sorrow, bringing my every fear to life

they whisper to me, revealing the secrets of my soul

their inky forms mutating and dripping with memories they stole

silent fat tears slither down my cheek and pool on my pillow

as their ominous oppressiveness surges and billows

i cannot close my eyes, i cannot even blink

their growing agitation pushing me to the brink

my mouth widens and a scream begins to stem

but they rip it from my mouth before i can expose them

their silent screeches are deafening, inundating the night

they’re absorbing every bit of me, i’m quickly losing the fight

but then..

it’s 3 am and i’m awake, covered in sweat rivulets and streams

and a disembodied voice mutters, ‘go back to sleep, it was only a dream.’



© Chelsie Cummings 2016

Featured photo found on Flickr

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