Cling to hope, frail as it were, even steal it if you must, and from every corner of every dusty room remember! The memory of those things, long forgotten, those paintings of rust, which left to time, became the ruined dances of moths and canvas. Or perhaps they were the chances we so desperately longed for, gone the way of all fleeting things, to take back the laughter of the child of spring. Listen carefully, as the echoes sing and the sun blond hair so fair in its youth brings a smile so fair in the truth, under the tone the ticking clock rings. Count slowly the second hand whispers, seconds as scriptures till the hour departs. Draw me pictures inside pictures of broken hearts, with broken crayons from a box with a broken lid, just like you did when we were broken kids.  Just like the arguments our parents hid, to spare injury to our glee, now you disagree, and then admit defeat with me. Look through the eyes of someone else and see so many things I hate in me. Yet we cling to these things desperately, with failing hands, afraid to let go, afraid of the holes they’ll leave in our soul. They’re now lost to us, leaving us cold, or is it simply our loss of control, like a fist full of sand. The rivulets that pour through the crevices of the fingers of our empty hands, leaving only the few grains that linger for the empty man who stands on legs of strength borrowed, in the hopes that his memories may survive the morrow.