The hands of time grasp,
and they grasp so tight,
so tight around the throat.
The struggle beats down,
beats down,
beats down.
The soul, so sad, so sensitive,
so very fragile and cold,
it leaves the frigid body,
it escapes, it sings.
The mind collapses,
and time, it dances,
though it meant anything but harm,
no harm,
no harm.
It meant no harm.









