50 hours

There are no sons

In a 50 hours’ week

There is no sun

There is no light 

In a winter’s 50 hours’ week

Where nothing fits

And the schedule is tight 

There are no pets

In a +50 hours’ week

With no time to rest

And the time that’s left

Split in to insomnias and sleep 

Is full of kisses that never touch the lips

Full of momentum but no moments 

Full of nothing but emptiness 

In a 50 hours’ week there is still hope

That unfolds all the mysteries 

Of the love that lies beneath the sheets 

That killed the miseries 

Of the clock that constantly cries