The in-between are those hours. Indebted to souls, asphalt legends. The anguish we shared, the triumphs we endured. By flickering becomes its witness. By grief becomes another breakthrough. The in-between are those hours. To sit still in an old chair, a palm on its thigh, the other on its forehead, a tear swelling, feet both tapping … the room is full of evidence, years of studies, a voice emerges, to witness distress, by kindness to kneel low, grab a hand, and ask if things are hectic. The in-between are those hours.
I wanted to ask—like an intrusion, to side with silence; to discuss the fence, a bulwark, those island gates—
So drilled in there, keeping solace close, a facial appearance.
Each verse, each lyric, devoid of its divinity, so incarnated, at ashes and Astro flames. The in-between are those hours.
I used to obey my gullet, I learned to hear my spirit, surrounded by dry forests—from soul to brains.
Those hours formed passions. Those dreams wouldn’t be silent. Each soul is a sign.
