The 11th Hour

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life

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In the 11th hour the meek sleep, but there are those that delight in the night, those that have grown accustom to darkness and its vulgarity, those that party. In the 11th hour, there are those that are in tune with the moon, whose feet dance to house music while at home mother waits alone, in agony and their bed lies empty.

In the 11th hour speakers boom while bodies gyrate in unison to the beat, while the meek watch reruns of game of thrones season 5. In the 11th hour, the meek go wild, engage their minds in novels that blow their brains but the girls are more into blowing other guys minds. In the 11th hour she shall set the dance floor on fire, but in the morning what will be left of her but ash, she would have danced all her freedom away, danced all her beautiful self to waste, danced until no dance was left to dance, until no fire was left to burn, no beat was present to move, to groove. She dances her silly self into obscurity, danced her way into the sheets of her stranger and all she had left was a long walk home, alone.

In the 11th hour, he shall know alcohol and shall devour it all into the empty abyss of his belly, he shall forget his name and a stranger will have to remind him sometime in the preceding events of the night who he is and when their done she will hope to leave with her dignity... But in the morning the meek rise, they thrive, they are immortals, they build, their names are carried through the wind and into the memories of a civilization and the thunder edges their names into stone, in the light the meek rule and will never be forgotten