[filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] There is no time, only hours falling slow Blue-lit water running where the cold winds go There is no clock, only habits in my skin Little ghosts of yesterday that pull me in I wake inside the rhythm of a borrowed day Following the patterns that refuse to fade away [Pre-Chorus] The silence has a heartbeat, the walls begin to turn Every breath a spark, every memory burns [Chorus] The hour that burns The hour that burns The poem hurts, like a signal in the dark A broken frequency leaving traces of a mark The hand cuts through the moment I cannot return Holding onto ashes of the hour that burns [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] There are no numbers, only shadows that remain There are no answers, only echoes in the rain The machines keep humming, the midnight lights glow I am made of habits I never chose to know The poem hurts, the hand cuts, the fire stays I lose myself inside the endless waves [Pre-Chorus] No clock to save me, no time to discern Only the endless pulse of the hour that burns [Chorus] The hour that burns The hour that burns The poem hurts, like a signal in the dark A broken frequency leaving traces of a mark The hand cuts through the moment I cannot return Holding onto ashes of the hour that burns [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] There is no time, only hours falling slow I stand in the ache and let it grow Little ghosts of yesterday still pull me in So I breathe the flame and wear my skin [Final Chorus] The hour that burns The hour that burns The poem hurts, like a signal in the dark A broken frequency leaving traces of a mark The hand cuts through the moment I cannot return Holding onto ashes of the hour that burns [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] The hour that burns
