thirteen o’clock

i lay here staring at the ceiling
dandelion fluff coats my head
the dull ache behind my eyes
rancid reminders of the before when will it end my mind pleads
the clock strikes thirteen again

i draw the anchor from the violet waters, careful of cascading memories, the serpentine river carries wilted lilies to the land of the dead, corpse lights bloom around the winding bend

alabaster morning dew coats my shivering legs, acidic tongues loll in lifeless mouths around me, moths flit about, the call of sweet blood shimmering in the half lit dawn of the morning after

corpulent toads stare menacingly at my makeshift raft, the bones of dream wrapped together with tenuous threads of hope, taking on more water than natural buoyancy should allow

i lay under blankets staring up
the mushrooms have human eyes
the hammer strikes my temples
the stench of death permeates
there is no ending to madness
on the bell tolls the thirteenth hour

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