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  • Writer's pictureTuur Verheyde

Witching Hour

The hour strikes

You as your forwandering feet

Reach for solid floor.

The Seamstress slides you

Some shiver-like spells

From Her half-light grimoire,

If only you did not let them

Slip back behind the closed


The fog guides its midnight

Host, they prod

Your packaged past hunting

For regret fresh

Enough to fit their growls

Of cold reproach.

But more are moving

At this time, by moonlight

Path or starlit tide each pass

Your porous walls of yawn.

Some are seeking, scanning

Glass and stream for faces

To reflect.

The night carries

On its back many

Dark souls looking for

A worse time. Best go

Back to sleep.

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