the hours

quiet fills the spaces left behind as the setting sun has spent its final glory for the day.
the world waits and eyes are closed against the absence of light that encompasses all.
ships rock easily in the harbour, the water depthless in its blackness.
the village streets barren in the moonlight that casts a misty silver curtain.

it is the witches hour that silently approaches.
midnight is theirs, the newly blackened skies simmer the darkness that cradles their magic.
they haunt the hour that rests in the shadows as the hands of the clock reach for the heavens.
the night air as cold as their words that fall in whispers over their cauldrons.

the devil plays in the coal black hour that slides into being as the witches take their leave.
the clock strikes three and she dances brazenly in her hour of seduction, enticing the minds of her lovers in their slumber.
beckoning their hearts to fall into her embrace, her gossamer wings fold and envelope tightly.

the hour of lost souls calls to its tribe; they answer with surrender.
four am is the beautiful torment of time reserved for those who wander, ever meandering.
it awakens those who most desperately seek the promised solace of sleep, their rest denied.
it is a hushed reverence of secrets hidden in graves too shallow to ever find peace.

the shifting shapes transform, change, grow.
creeping away, begrudgingly, as the night begins its slow transformation into the light.
stirrings appear at the edges of awareness. the darkness releases its grip reluctantly,
the shadows that will lurk in the sunlight, its delicate promise of return.

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