This is the Hour

This is the hour

This is the hour of the last sign making

late when the spirit is spent

farthest from noon and its diminishing shadow

deep into the probing ingenuous night

where one can keep no lies

this is the hour of the soul's stock taking

this is where it speaks

when nobody is listening this is where it goes

whisper of light

where in darkness there is little to change

and there is no charge

for a full and frank confession

this is the hour of the bold heart's baring

before all our nature's church

this is a time for immaculate language

cutting open and precise right where it hurts

this is a place of individual conscience

nobody can judge you here

this is a space without floors to be nailed to

this is a quiet calling

a place with no names for the voices to live on

as impersonal as a high stoned moon

this is the time for the blurred hearts breaking

fleeing crisp and crescent

firm bodies raising flagship memories at dawn