Poem: At 3 a.m.

Clock in autumn leaves
Be careful.

At 3 a.m.

At 3 a.m.,

I am not alone in my room.

Shadows from cars, or

something more sinister,

glide across my bedroom wall.

Somewhere from deep within

the house, a clock ticks,

a slow, ominous,

persistent sound,

that warns me of

time rolling on.


At 3 a.m., something screeches,

a jarring sound somewhere between

a pained expression and one

of fear, of terror,

followed by unsettling sounds

of slurping, of gorging.

A dog barks,

once, twice, then silence.

Outside, the trees dance

to the mournful song of

the November wind.


At 3 a.m.,

inky shadows flicker

in the corners of my mind,

memories and fears and

vague, unidentified threats.

The shadows creep closer,

close in, engulf even the

happiest of memories,

coating them in darkness.

At 3 a.m.,

Nothing is safe.



A spooky poem for this cool autumn day. If you like this, you can find more poems here.

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