It’s been a while now since you could face
yourself to wear the time the way it wore you.
Feel the years being glued to you.
You can see your skin’s grown weathered,
but you can’t catch one passing glimmer
of the past you’ve been constructing since
before our time was altered.
And I don’t what to do, so I sing you off to sleep
and kiss you on your head while decay is creeping in.
And I’d sell you lines to keep you from thinking the
bridges we built are all sunk in an ocean now.
Now from youth so long divided, creaking bones and dimmer lighting,
you’ve found your cup’s become too shallow to keep your fleeting thoughts inside it.
And when you sink into reflections are you aging with those etchings?
Or are you young and free and graceful? Is this passing time a waste?
No? I don’t know. What can I do?
Except bring you back inside to ease your wondering for a while.
All the madness is creeping in. I don’t know.
So now I’ll speak right to you in your lofty golden tower.
If only drowning men can see you, must I watch them turn to sailors?
Because I can’t stand on that water if I can’t see you any clearer,
and I feel so disappointing watching mountains stand un-turning all the time.