The Glass hour stands still.
The grain of every condescending thought prolongs.
The careful dome starts to narrow in.
The vigilant hope of something better, something new feigns away.
The tick of every minute ties in, narrowing a benign feeling of never finding peace.
Overthinking, overestimating, overtrying.... every edge of the glass hour grips onto the fragile form.
The clock sets off, the faucet of emotions tucked deep within, brims to the surface.
The slide through the narrow end of every hurt and pain slips through, the hold onto every emotion breaks through, the array of every descending expectation, ruling disappointment and frizzled out trust begins to burst open.
The dooming hour holds onto the wistful seconds, the wailing need to be seen and heard tramples the glass to broken pieces of every dying happiness.
The fallen form sleeps through, never wanting to acknowledge the destruction.
The glass hour no matter how broken would be fixed back to seem like nothing, for the fallen form knew that no matter how shattered the glass hour tried to be, the fallen form would fix it with a smile, to not let anyone know how broken the fallen form could truly be.
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Jaded Reality
PoetrySome Realities are hidden safely in cages far away from the guilt of being judged at, from being gawked at, to form a veil to hide beneath in order to look as humanly happy as possible. To hoard down dark secrets, ultimately sulking in a murk so da...
