Time has passed away,
just like the dead dandelions
that drift upon a breeze.
It floats above our fallen dreams
like some specter from film noir.
You hold out your hand,
but all feeling is lost.
Numbness sets in.
We bury the mantel clock
as a symbol of all things forgotten.
Once we knew how to sing.
Our voices now crack like lightning.
A sharp, raspy requiem pours out.
Youth is undervalued,
we play with it so carelessly.
All that is left is a faded photograph,
of who we once were.
Burial over, we stand up,
brushing the dirt from our knees,
and say goodbye to time.