The Witching Hour

It is the witching hour. There are no breezes in a windowless house. There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light. There are no dreams in a sleepless night. It is the witching hour. When our endangered psyche roams. When we are captured by pernicious spells. When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains. It is the witching hour. When warlords game the system. When sorcerers gaslight the faithful. When conspiracy conquers fact. Only the crestfallen sense the seamless interval of peril. Only the dejected resist the wizardry of the despot. Only the discouraged view the counterfeit wallpaper of rot. Only the discontented shout the truth against the cacophony of sophistry. But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead, will always know first light, will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity, will always sweep away the opiate specters of tyranny. The witching hour no more. Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome. The witching hour no more. Democracy survives to live another day.