I feel an impending sense of doom.
Thin bottled pills won’t cull the gloom?
I wonder why I sprout this fright,
Blooming as the clock signals for night.
Beneath my skin I tremble, weak,
Yet my eyes won't seem to weep.
I know when I feel the call of dark
it's time to wait for the morning lark.
Why does the clock strike at my heart,
the hands at ten and two tear me apart.
The hands at eleven and twelve pull me closer
to the edge of despair which I won't muster.
I feel an impending sense of doom
when it's time to quiet beneath the moon.
I rip at my face with determination
for blood and scabs whisper me absolution.
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