In The Fourth Hour - Poem by Philip Hoom
stretching for shadows
that hang on plastered walls
like empty ghouls
resigned to being trapped
in this dimension
inner turmoil projected?
or a nightwake phantom
as tangible as any entity?
I wipe the saliva from my cheek
focusing my mind on positive things
having sweated through
another set of sheets
one day, it will all be over.
this is only the beginning.
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