The loneliest time is three twenty-one in the morning.
I know. I’ve lived through it—night after endless night.
Proved it scientifically with calculations done by an alchemist’s flame.
Measured decibel and lux, and found that lustrous
mirrors cannot speak. Uncommunicative lethargic shadows
rest in corners, and leaves sit on the vapid air beside empty music stands.
Even he, once so active and poetic, purrs on a gentle horizon,
deaf to the shrill cries that only you can hear from the basement below.
The time is now ripe to smell the mind’s entrails,
and amid gathering noxious mists search for that craven creature
whose thirst for protection is great.
Take his hand and hold it tight, for he is scared too.
© 2016 Nemo
Nemo is a poet from Thanet who writes poetry to improve his mental health.