Bangarang

The cornermost recesses of imagination fall deeper into shadow

as do the room’s with every passing second.

It’s the Devil’s hour.

Movement and timing pull tricks on a still mind,

and even stiller surroundings.

There is no fear, but sympathy.

For self, and one.

For lack of better understanding.

For the soul locked within the construct of twenty-four.

Somewhere there’s a freedom, but not here.

A gopher’s den of inspiration and wonder.

Darker than Midnight.

A holistic solace of blind purity found only behind the eyelids of infancy.

Before fear is measurable, or understood.

Raw potential to overcome inhibitions before they exist.

To create freely, with all forces coexistent.

Reduced to a thimble, holding unlimited potential.

But only for lack of fear.

No desire to fight, but to fly.

To streak through the pitch, leaving a timeless path of lost soul in wake.

Resonance that can not be erased.

To purely create.

This is the Devil’s hour.