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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,

under these

thin comforters,


layered and

layered and

layered for



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,

creeping inside,

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

(on veins)

spewing into our chests,

until our slowing hearts are


slowly dyed

two a.m. black

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