I was buried by Christmas
And didn't dig myself out till spring.

Now I'm faded from the winter
Brittle, the cracks in the seat of my swing.

Will I sleep until June?
Oh how I wish I could.

But then I'd miss my birthday
And yours, and yours
But still I would

Sleep

Through it all

Waste away time
As if it were a renewable resource

As if time were mine.

I can feel it running out
Sand slipping between the glass

I can't take back hours I've waisted

Waiting,
crying,
sitting through mass.

An hour in a church to pray for more time

What if I took those hours and made them all mine?

The seasons of life are dust in your hands

You'll never receive the hours your soul so demands

You can sleep through it all
Or make something to leave

Or spend the time praying for more...

It's whatever you believe.