Wednesday, December 2

The Witching Hour

photo by MARLOU JOSEPH B. BON-AO/The Flame

Do you hear them come?
The rustling of withered leaves,
And the marching feet of headless priests?
The sullen song of a weeping woman,
Or was that of the fallen soldier,
Lurking within the thread of hedges?
Watching you shiver, from the sinister shadows.

The chiming of the clock rouses you.
Rapid and deafening, your heart goes.
Your feeble legs picking up its pace.
Keep your gaze straight for the dubious gate,
There, a yellow radiance calls you on.
Do not dare give the olden building a look,
Or else the ghastly notions drag you back to its doors. 

The coarse foliage of trees hovering you,
Like wrinkled hands of a ruthless witch.
Footfalls echoing down the grimy path,
Forcing you through the unnerving elements.
The airless atmosphere ceases to bring you warmth,
Keeping your heart sliding down your sleeve.
An illuminated smoke graces past your arm,
Your heart quickens at the sight of a faceless mist.
Your sleeve! Your gaze shifts down as you remember.
‘Tis stained with ink from your last lecture.
Hold onto your freshly printed readings,
And do fear creasing its edges.

The calming serenity soon lures you in,
And you wipe beads of sweat off your cheek.
Panting and shaking, you step onto the light
All is well, you brush off the benumbing terror.
By the gate, the night guard asks you,
“Running home late again, are we?” DAWN DANIELLE D. SOLANO

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