Three minutes to midnight

Minutes to midnight
lucky number seven
ticks on the clock;
mirrors clash in the blue
and mosaic tiles line themselves metrically.
Don't let the blue bird sing,
it will remind you of long gone,
of all that pierces your once whole heart.
As silly as a red ribbon curled around a twig,
breakable,
but sharp.
Blood drips slowly on the floor
making prints on the cold tiles,
oh look, there's a leaf floating on the stream of
red.
The colour of death, love and
power.
Don't let the blue bird sing,
its tempting lies are sugar coated
and poisonous with their bite.
It will shatter that once perpetual bliss,
that used to make everything okay.
Creeping,
slowly and silent;
making its way into your thoughts,
soul,
everything.
You will have no escape,
no peace of mind;
just emptiness.
It will control without really controlling,
embedding itself deeper
into your skin.

Ding dong,
the clocks struck twelve.