amwriitng, arts, Death, dreams, fiction, Observations, Photography, Poetry, scary, twilight zone, Writing

Past a Spooking Hour

    

    There is a place where a converged spot of nothingness gravitates and gyrates like a bee. It is confined to it’s place of death. It cannot move on, or rest. Day and night, every witching hour. Ignorance walks through it and each time that happens it vibrates, a little and it’s dedicated spot waivers. On a Sunday this can happen 100 times or at Christmas a 1000 times.  This soul is not fickle or flirt with it’s death. It makes a resolute stand within it’s own eternity. 

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