I'm running out of time,
i'm late, i'm late.
How will I ever,
fix this mess I created,
how much longer,
do I have
until my time is up.

I'm moving so slowly,
i'm scared, i'm scared.
How can I save,
one of my passions,
how can I make,
something beautiful
start again.

I'm falling endlessly,
no ground, no ground.
When will I land,
on solid earth,
will I ever,
land on the ground
again.

Im running out of time,
I'm late, i'm scared.
Will people hate me,
for not being there,
will they stop,
being there for me,
because I was not able to
be there for them.

Am I late,
I must be,
i'm too late,
and i'm sorry.

With the sweet melancholy of time
comes the beautiful notion of nostalgia.
We grasp moments of shared joy and freedom-
beacons of hope that forever altered our souls.
And with such recollection
we finally fathom the value of those around us.
And we realize
it is our souls who must surrender
when our bodies are broken and worn.

I thought the hardest part
would be choosing how;
But I can see instead
that it's saving my world
or shattering yours...