Time is slipping through my hands.
Like sand, it glides and grinds against my palms,
Seeping back into the beaches of the forgotten,
Where all our ashes lie, waiting to become wroughten sandcastle—
The Paper Towns of Architecture.

Our hearts beat, and throb, and pulse,
Straining to out tick the tick tocking of the clock on the wall.
I see armies of pendulums standing in rows,
Waiting for Rome to fall as the sun doesn’t set,
And the North Star doesn’t show, so the vikings can’t row.

The bell tower won’t stop rattling against your heart
Even though you swear it’s been noon for five minutes.
I checked my clock and calendar, and even star charts,
And I can tell you there are not enough hours in a day
The same way that there aren’t enough phases of the moon
Or stars in a constellations of nightly plumes.

I’d like to rewrite the constellations,
Play connect the dots with those golden specks in the sky.
I’d hold a solar flare in a jar, just to show you the fireflies,
Even when they can’t fly.

As death creeps in through the cracks in the doors
And time slips out of the locks like visitors of here and past,
I am sure of one thing and fact that will last:
Our time is running out, that is without a doubt.