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In the Quiet Hours


Quiet Hours

The lights are on, 

Dining room, living room, down the hall, 

It seems like there should be life in this place, 

But it’s empty, and no one’s home, 

And no one’s been home at all in two weeks, three, maybe more,

People walk through here, of course; there are bodies,

You see them, pretty sure they see you, 

But the concrete and wooden flooring of their world is nothing you can see

You lose count of the days, and the hours, 

You can visualize or look at photographs, but

You miss the real smell of real flowers.

It’s dark; that’s a certainty. Check the clock – 9:43

People are home, but the house is empty. 

And you think maybe you should move,

Because these hours have become quiet on you. 

 

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