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It is the way it flows,
The way it goes,
That leaves me numb.

So I try to cheat a little,
Turn myself into a winter lake
To see if time will stop breathing too,
And share the stillness of immobility,
With me.

Instead it carves lines in my youth
A little deeper everyday.
For time is a sculptor
That undertakes lifelong projects
To perfect the face of death,
Always successfully.

Despair droops down melting figures,
Salty fountains who can�t help but cling,
Like my heart clings to the pictures
Of a past of which I know will remain nothing,
In time.

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