A year in the making.
From that long summer storm, slowly fading away. Silence is left.
An incredibly empty space.
A visitor, but not a guest.
Checking into a sore hotel.
It’s 4 am. I do not sleep.
I do nothing but dream.
A numb pill for my restless trip.
Silence dies with the occasional car.
These long dark nights,
Seem to be forever still inside my eyes.
Strong are the hands of the weak.
For they are built with hopes and fears.
I do not dream.
I do not sleep.
For my old joy is nowhere near.