The Hour
Writing is, for me, a religious act, each piece a prayer, a cry of praise, an offering to something greater than myself. Something so dear, I am loathe to give directly to another. Perhaps it is the fear that it will be taken too lightly, perhaps the fear that it won't. Even those most dear to me seldom truly inspire a piece. Yet, when they do, I must do as I do now.
This, is for an amazing woman, one who has never seen me, but sees me more clearly than so many others. Distance keeps her from gazing into my eyes, yet my soul is still inexplicably revealed to her, beyond any control of mine. And I wonder, if she knows who she is, what she means to me, and how very much I adore her.
The hour is late. The time is near.
My mind is cold, consumed by fear.
In deepest silence you can hear
the falling of an icy tear.
Listen close. You’ll hear it shatter.
My heart has grown so cold.
Shards of darkness, deafening clatter,
breaks on ears, so young, so old.
The time is late. The hour is near.
The danger’s close, but you’re not here.
You can’t protect me. That is clear.
It can’t be stopped. The pain will sear.
The agony runs hot and burning.
My mind has grown so cold.
Within its depths, such chaos churning,
hunger to rip out from the mold.
The hour is late. The time is near.
I speak a prayer in your God’s ear.
The reply is naught but a vicious leer.
The choir of angels just taunt and jeer.
Forsaken now, no more pretenses.
My soul has grown so cold.
Left once more to my own defenses,
I cry out curses, blasphemy bold.
The hour is dark. The end is near.
Through haze of tears at you I peer.
With weakened arms I hold you dear.
I whisper words into your ear.
The vow I make, no other will hear.
My love for you was always clear.
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