Poetry | Witching Hour by Fergus Byron-Low

Witching hour in the universe
Necklaces hang like strange fruit from heaven
Skin cold in the midnight hum
The mirror in the corner leads to another room
The last will and testament of the copycat eyes tomb

Bedouin carpet on my floor
Giving me visions of white turbans and coffee’d faces
Rug on bed, red and orange
With city streets crawling in the their burning polluted frenzy

Through fire light enters the darkness
Paintbrushes in spirit, much like the spirit in my lungs
Through these looking glass, we’ll point ours guns

Nothing moves in my room
My teal walls take me to the desert underwater
Not a mimic who dwells on the surface
And breaks like glass
But the place of white horses on sand dunes,
Lightning on neptune,
And the scaffold faces of workaday blues

Greasy screw cap twisted
Golden spiced rum fuming
Cuban petrol for the alcoholic artist
Pirate of the high eyes

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