Midnight
First stroke rings like a whisper
The laugh of a forgotten sister
Her hand pale and sinister
Creeping and closer
Whimpers sound
The scream of a hound
You turn 'round
The wood is dark, restless
The second stroke cries
The bird has died
The mother flies
You would do well to remember
A tortured fate
A dreadful hate
A feral mate
Your burns and blisters
The third stroke strikes
The feather alights
The mourner fights
You glisten and shimmer
A tell tale feel
A rotten meal
A dropping reel
Your sleep is senseless
The fourth stroke shudders
The wail of a brother
A blind runner
Your wine is bitter
A quickened spinner
A rat and it bit her
An oozing liquor
It turns and your crying
The fith stroke down
The candle and the clown
The spider's crown
You're falling down
A wanton lie
A saguine night
An awful sight
You bruise and whimper
The sixth stroke
Half the note
Gone the mote
You were worried
A wise man hurried
A grasping burried
A scorching slurred
You are not hurt
The seventh stroke so long
The plan has gone all wrong
The living go on
You are so lost
A biteing kind of song
A matted kind of hair
A slipping kind of ice
It is not Midnight