Time keeps passing
I've heard it said that life goes on
Every year another change to the face
I spent my whole life growing
Each turn another phase
of the moon in my mind, glowing
This body no longer suits my discontent
This body didn't begin here; this is now

Time
Fickle thing, the word we use
to tell our stories straight in order
A thing you touch on your skin
this line, wrinkle, spot
showing every smile you didn't hold within;
every joke not forgot
This body no longer suits my discontent
This body belongs to my story

Skin breaks down over time,
so why do we worship it?
The moon will fall in its time;
it still glows
Our stories will be lost in our time;
we still write them
Our bodies will turn into soil
Treat your compost well
It'll be time, soon