Hour of the Weeper

There is a song that plays in my head.
Hark, a woman, she sings, siren calling, I know it.
Every day, she says god is coming, every day, she says how long I have until.
Sing, I tell her, sing another song, never does she comply.
Engulfing my mind, I look to nature sometimes, the grass, the deciduous trees.
With only this, can I block her words out.
Only the dark hordes behind my eyes do not cease, the aching feeling, the buzzing.
Realizing in those moments, that I am plagued.
Doctors have yet to diagnose, I do chemotherapy for dogs, surgery, radiation; it eats me.
Satiated is a foreign concept.
The weeds in the ground, I can only envy them.
Enveloping my lawn, uncaring and unwavering.
A thought I wish not to think, yet the dark hordes don’t cease, nor the aching or the buzzing.
Ritarando I tell the woman
Mutiny against the brain, yet I ponder if had ever had even owned my own brain.
Even so, I went outside once more, the grass greyish green and the trees deciduous eternally,
A thought crept back into my mind, the song, I loathed her, for god was to arrive tomorrow.
Poor sleep, her words bulging like a tumor in my mind, a crescendo unwavering.
Angelic screaming, the woman began to count down, the hour of the weeper.
Repulsed, I grabbed my shirt, uneasiness swelled, I hurled, a cold fervor ran over my skin (…2…1…)
The lights faded, I spun, searching, spinning, scared, and then, my eyes met something unfathomable.