3.00 A.M.

I write these words at 3.00 a.m. From a small room on the second floor A worn-down lead point glides across The threadbare paper I can hear hatred looming In the corridor Of death just below me It is stalking me And waiting for me To make a sound I can see a shadow Crawling upon the black and gold Wallpaper It wants me to give it a reason A reason to kill me A reason to justify its hatred It is trying to stamp out creation The miracle of genius It is cunning and sneaky Like a fox Waiting in the shadow of defiance Then without warning There is a stillness Against the sound of a ticking Grandfather clock in the foyer Then a creak in the old wooden floor I know he is there waiting With the stillness of a cat Then more silence Until a flicker of light Flash through the old house Then darkness And it is over And I say under my breath As I lean back on my bed With these writings in my hand Goodnight father Until tomorrow at 3.00 a.m. Killer of creation. - Ken Riccio original poems ©