The hour that strike

The hour that strikes
.
One in the morning, a pathetic shade stands with only his cold feet to hold him
Reminded of the haze of blue, and a million murders never done,
I hid the knives in the floorboards, where the landlords will never find them.
In the shadows of the room, the grey eyes of someone
stares into the abyss of a breaking heart, where the blood drips to condemn,
loud like a judges hammer, echoes through his bones like bullets from a gun.
.
Two in the morning, a blankets cover a suddering figure,
Holding his chest, as if to keep the organs inside,
trying to keep the biggest earthquake from the tip of brothers and sisters.
The shakes should break something, they should kill like cyanide,
A wink later and night remmbers every cry and every burning cinder.
.
Three in the morning, and the figure lies asleep in bed,
the shakes are gone and have not left him dead,
the bedposts are still attached to the edge of the bed
While the spectre looks just above his head
making his heart broken, like all it has done is bled.
.
By Lw end -<>