Half Past Four

 The world is held in velvet pause, before the clock begins its chime, suspended in the quiet laws of summer’s early, golden time. At half-past four, the dark retreats, a cinematic, slow-bloom glow, while shadows pull back from the streets and let the amber currents flow.

It whispers through the window pane— a silver thread, then citrus light— to wash away the indigo stain left over from the deepest night. I lie within the heavy fold of morning grogginess and grace, watching the horizon’s gold illuminate this sacred space.

No rush of day, no frantic pace, just soul and sun in soft accord; the light across my waking face, a silent, shimmering reward. The sky is painted, vast and wide, in hues of peach and violet air, while I remain on sleep’s soft tide, caught in the sunrise’s morning prayer.

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