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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At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
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At one in the morning, an old house keeps watch while the rest of the world sleeps and every dark window seems to stare back.
