In The Fourth Hour

stretching for shadows
that hang on plastered walls
like empty ghouls
resigned to being trapped
in this dimension

inner turmoil projected?
or a nightwake phantom
as tangible as any entity?

I wipe the saliva from my cheek
focusing my mind on positive things
having sweated through
another set of sheets

one day, it will all be over.

this is only the beginning.

by Philip Hoom

Comments (3)

if i had to read poems such as this one to learn how to write poems, i would never learn anything. stop wasting peoples time with this trash that you write, give it up.
Excellent poem, perfectly permeated with a tortured anguish. -chuck
the history fo Everything! fantastic Yes, one day it will all be over and Yes each day a new beginning and Yes the agony of hanging on going on sweat like acid burning the flesh seemingly forever but not quite a fine poem