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
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