3 AM

Climbing
Grasping
Gasping. . .
Reaching the Surface of
Consciousness
Propelling Upward
Merging with
Ear-pounding
Rushing Blood
Racing to Meet the
Beating of
Insistent Fist
Against Solid Oak.
Armies of Phantom Ants
Swarming a Spinal Path over the
Fetal Posture
Attempting Escape from a
Spectral Wail. . .
Fleshing Shadows and
Spackling Cracks with
Unspeakable Torment.
"We're very sorry ma'am. . ."
Luminous Clock Radio
Shivering
Erupting Unscheduled
Spilling Melancholy Pop
Blanketing Wrenching Sobs
Forever Transforming
Melody
Into
Dirge.

Tara Colarell
Copyright 1997