She says the clock doesn’t strike
the way it used to.
Old hands and rusted gears
used to ring like church bells
calling in the darkness.
She says the wind yells
keeps her up at night.
Crickets speak to her in broken words
they haunt ghosts in the graveyard of her mind.
She says the darkness haunts her.
Blackbirds wait on her doorstep,
Cleaning their oily wings
and sharpening their claws on the door
slowly scraping away the wood
chipping away at her life.
She says, in the morning
they are gone.
And one day
the door will be gone
and anything that wants to can come in
and nothing go out.