3 Am Poem by Mary Champion

3.00 am - the witching hour…

When molehills morph into mountains,
the bee in your bonnet becomes an ICBM
and the flea in your ear turns into a fire-breathing dragon.

Now is when the smallest slight
becomes an excuse for murderous revenge,
when problems are, by definition, insoluble,
when every minor disappointment overwhelms
and suicide seems the only realistic option.

How fortunate then,
that this dark mood is only allotted an hour or so
before the light of dawn puts everything back in perspective.