The quietest hours are
Often most treacherous
For they don't pander to a routine
Or a purpose.
Like a silent wave, they splice your soul
And shake you out of comatose.
To the white noise of unrealised dreams.
To all the promises your failed to keep.
Its when the inkless canvas of your existence stares you in the face
What could have been, blue and black and multiple shades of red.
But what you have instead is a tale
That's far from written.
A half formed memory that seems to
have been lost in translation.
A tune, that's elegantly incoherent
A fear that's found new home in incompetence.
How long would you wait to slowly die in its clenches?
A lifetime, I hope to heavens is an inappropriate estimate.
