The strongest of men,
not one, and not ten,
can hinder the hands of a clock.
With each passing day,
the hours they weigh,
as a chain round the neck with a rock.
No manner of coin,
no ally you join,
will waylay the dawn from its breaking.
And when all's said and done,
there is nowhere to run,
the morning of that final awakening.
Yet immortal we feel,
and made up of steel
we pretend to not see the rust.
Which gnaws us away,
with each passing day.
It's there...on that you may trust.
So color your hair.
Lift your face if they stare,
at the signs of your oncoming night.
And deny your mortality,
the one true reality.
It is there,if just out of sight.
And cling to the ever fading light,
as you fight the un-winnable fight...
Calypso@nebulae.net
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