The Witching Hour
Written for the hours when the world falls silent. Between midnight and dawn, shadows grow longer, old ghosts awaken, and imagination walks freely. These are poems born in the quietest hours of the night.
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On Halloween morning, I invite every dead version of myself to the fire—then turn toward November carrying my own light.
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Born on October’s almost-dark edge, I learned that death, rebirth, and becoming can share the same flame.
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At three in the morning, survival looks less like magic and more like a chipped mug, vitamins, cold water, and the promise to wake up tomorrow.
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
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Lucifer becomes the quiet guardian of unfinished poems, walking through the dark as though it were simply another room.
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She went looking for somewhere to put her grief and found the moon, the forest, an abandoned house, and eventually herself.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
