Just after midnight
The first hour strikes.
A shiver in the dark.
Blood runs still in the soul.

The clock jerks forward
Like the knife in the
Killer’s hands.
Unsteady.

There goes the chime
The third hour comes.
The clutching of rigid fists.
Immobile, yet feverish.

Then comes the wicked crimes.
A banging on the wall, silently sharp.
No one notices a thing.
Just a lonely person berating walls

A tear drips
From the soul of the weeper.
The hours that struck
They took the night deeper.

A splitting cry worse
Than the
Hummingbird’s flapping wings. Silence in the night
The clock had struck
Eleven.
Aid was never
Given.

Time was lost track of.
Chime after chime faded into sound sleep.
The thirteenth hour was called.
Could anyone do a thing?

The pleas were never answered. Because they
Were never
Called.
The fourteenth hour has arisen.
The other hours faded in comparison.