It’s always been romanticized by those who’ve never seen it
Said to be for the lovers lying intertwined,
Naked under the warm, white duvet.
But that early hour is anything but the lover’s hour
4 AM is the dragging feet of the young girl who’s on her way to work, doing anything to fill her empty pockets,
It’s the dark eye bags of the father who would bend over backwards for his kids,
It’s the stumbling of those trying to get sober from when they last felt their heart shatter,
It’s that broken hour in which the poor and the wretched thrive, the hour that accepts all those that were accidentally left behind,
4 AM is an ever stretching tunnel that holds a distant light at it’s end, a dismal flicker of hope for all the broken beings that wander through it.