It’s the hour when no one speaks

what they really think.

It’s the hour of a dead harmony

when no one makes any mistakes.

It’s the hour of not knowing

that the wound is festering.

It’s the hour of acceptance

that it’s okay to stay unwell.

It’s the hour of affirming

that nothing much will ever change.

It’s the hour of not knowing

that one has become a fossil.

It’s the hour when there’s no life left

And it’s death wandering about.

It’s the hour when quarrels cease

because no one ever seeks an explanation.