Thoughts
Past the hour when the clock stops ticking,
the mind begins its quiet, solitary work.
The barriers of the afternoon collapse,
leaving only the raw, unpolished thoughts
that are too heavy to carry in the sun.
In these blue and hollow hours,
memories do not arrive as warnings;
they arrive as soft, persistent echoes,
reverberating against the walls of the mind
like rain trapped inside a hollow valley.
The world believes the dark is empty,
but it is crowded with unanswerable questions.
We trace the geometry of our regrets on the ceiling,
weaving ourselves into the fabric of the night,
until the first cold thread of morning pulls it all apart.
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