The air is soft, cool.
Its clouds, my face they hold fondly as no lover.

I am wrapped in the hand of a clock

my eyes locked on its crux, willing it to remain immovable

Be here.


The road that takes you, keeps you where you go.

My heart stops with each strike of the clock,

You will not find me alive, I fear.


Tangled in the threads of time, I will not stop, even when desperate:

The choice out of my hands


Blast my nonchalance.

I want very much to say I love you

But I fear you will not hear

You will not understand.


Lost in this myriad of thorns,

I pray the wind will carry my message