What can be depicted that I have yet to touch,
unravel a mystery my mind has yet to absorb.
For leaves of stress fall on my path,
cremating my imagination as hours pass.
As the hand on the clock so turns.

One touched by the hand of death,
taking by fragile hand to grave.
Another, nerves unravel like thread,
how many hours only God knows.
One left confidence and pride
kind has been the hand of time.
As the hand on the clock so turns.

In a trance broken by my glimpse,
reality sets in and we come to this.
How many times has one sat and pondered,
dreams, tales, all wonder, life?
While the hand on the clock so turns.