The Witching Hour Poem by James P. Roberts

The Witching Hour



I dreamed of you dead
and all your friends standing around
looking down at you
in your blue-satin lined coffin

The same thought ran through
all their minds why were you dead
They didnt want you dead
and I didnt want you dead but
there you were
dead

You looked so beautiful
The map of your face now spread
and smooth deaths erosion
Your lips shone inviting mine
I bent to brush them but a sudden draft
of cold air blew between us
All your friends had whispered

Long I looked so that I may
have forgotten to breathe
A surly sullen bell chimed
from a far off steeple
and a pallid hand reached to close
the lid slowly slowly

A train rumbled by
lonely in the night the clack clack
awakening me
I turned on the lamp
reaching for the telephone

I rang your number and was
slightly surprised to discover
that you were not dead

Tuesday, February 9, 2016
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