The Eleventh Hour
There’s a strange kind of power in the eleventh hour
That washes over me every night.
A feeble light inside shines and burns brighter
As the moments of the day slowly fade.
I’m free and falling through the layers of myself,
Making friends with who I’ve become since yesterday.
Potential towers in the eleventh hour;
Preparing to rise with the sun.
Memories dance in the shadows.
Often the moon peeks in and shines
A spotlight on my secrets and fears
Or a friend who stands the test of time.
