Shriveling blades of dying grass

giving in quickly to

a horribly immortal

grandfather clock,

a swaying pendulum

that just wont stop.

(Time is killing everything)

and your falling at

95 mph, going straight to

a glorious nowhere.

Picking up pieces of stars,

gathering each second into one empty bucket,

trailing forget me not kisses

on his neck,

crying into you're lonely sleeve

"Please my love,

don't leave."

-

You know you're running out of time

as blades of dying grass

fall into your tears and

-

he's gone.