Coffee at Twelve A.M.

Mountain valley's rise.

to quakes of dissonance,

Curving in the gears beneath each watch face,

The cogs of which pinch the fingers of the gods,

 

As they draw to a close,

I am pulled under by the gravitating undertow,

In a world with no moon,

On the shores of abyssal darkness,

 

The plain proves too much to cross,

Drink black the pools of infinite wrath,

and the blood of past humans,

Spilled on this land and forgotten,

 

Screaming every hour,

the time of their demise,

Bloodshot eyes and a spilled drop from the sea,

How could I forsake such dreams?

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