The Particular Shade of A Particular Time of Night
by Amarah Ennis
The shroud of the witching hour descends.
It cannot weave a spell of comfort to us,
We are cursed to burn alone
with our thoughts,
warm wax dripping from the corners of our eyes and
leaving cracked, cold trails behind.
The shadows of our minds envelop us,
flattening and spreading along our curved spines
dipping into crevices
of bone and breaking,
tree roots in concrete.
Oil in the bays of our blood,
weighing on arteries
spewing into our chests,
until our slowing hearts are
two a.m. black