The Hollow Hours of a Mind That Never Sleeps

The Hollow Hours of a Mind That Never Sleeps

In the quiet corners of my mind, shadows hum,

They crawl through the veins of thought and time,

Whispering names that have turned to dust,

Filling the silence with faces long gone.

The clock on the wall holds its breath,

Each tick a sigh, each tock a wound,

The sound slips deep beneath my skin,

Like rain that never reaches ground.

I wander rooms that used to glow,

The curtains hang in tired grace,

Windows blur with a film of dreams,

And the air still carries their names.

The fire died long before the dawn,

Ash lies still where warmth once danced,

The chair remains as I left it there,

Its cushion hollowed by absence and time.

I once heard laughter in these halls,

Light poured in through open doors,

Now dust has settled where joy had stayed,

And echoes whisper, never loud.

Sometimes I think the house can feel,

It hums at night, a breathing sound,

The walls expand as if to speak,

Then fall back down, too tired for words.

I see them all in candlelight dreams,

The ones who drifted beyond my sight,

They sit beside me in quiet rows,

Their eyes like stars I cannot name.

Their voices merge with the restless air,

Saying nothing and saying it all,

A language carved from grief and sleep,

That only hearts in ruin hear.

The night grows thick, a living thing,

It presses close as I drift through thought,

Each step I take dissolves to mist,

Each thought returns to where it came.

And when the dawn begins to breathe,

The ghosts retreat, the house exhales,

Only the hollow hours remain,

Stretching forever, soft and pale.