The Clock Strikes 12

The clock strikes 12.

Here I overcome my fears. Tonight I won't let them flood my room for there's not space enough for them.

There is an antidote to the spell cast upon me, to the lot I've been given.

The ceiling is all white: plain and old. The walls extend out it's barrenness.

Specks of dust flitter around, each swirling in waves too free to predict.

My dresser, stained from moisture and time, sits upon the wooden planks supporting my bed.

My own indent bends it's coiled springs to disseminate my essence.

The clothes I wore today litter the floor, no doubt drenched in my sweat and the debris from today's travels.

I have enough of what I need but it feels like too much. Each item finds the perfect spot among my dresser and drawers.

I bear not close my door, afraid of trapping in what I cannot endure or closing out what my innermost soul pleads for.

I lay on the floor, unwilling to feel the comfort of my bed just yet, for sleeping in such a condition wearies the soul.

This here, my stay, is the place of my nightmares, but tonight I will stand up for in their place I have something that leaves all else no space.

I will clench that which I cannot see; rise up and extinguish the hauntings in my past.

They are no longer who I am. Tonight I will not listen to them. I stand upon the coldness and despair of lies and declare out loud: I am a son. I am blessed. I am free, no longer bound and imprisoned.

Tonight I breathe freely, for my God is here among the dirt and dust and stench I've left behind, giving me new garments; clean, white, and pure.


The clock strikes 12, again.

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