The Midnight Hour

Weary, dreary, somber.

The midnight hour stretches on, only longer.

One can only ponder.

I sit or saunter to the soliloquy of silenced sadness, “How sadistic,” some say sarcastically. Soon satellites straddle the sinking sensation sweeping soundlessly, slinking skywards along my spindly spine.

To the crow and the raven I dedicate how I’ve lied.

Put the die on my death, an eye on a die, “Live or perhaps die,” rises the lie’s lowly lullaby. Fine, if my luck is up, my chips are down, the noose will loosen or perhaps be tautly tied.