The clock is ticking,
the realization is what hurts the most,
I can fly through the seconds,
glide past the minutes,
scratch through every waking moment,
and yet, it is looking at it that draws any blood,

My hands, I see you cracking,
under the pressure of merely existing,
all these words, coming from us millions bored,
consequences of living, both sublime and repugnant,
subliminal and explicit, corroding towards the same distance,

Snap, twang, click, slap,
exploding, all to the same foreboding,
shadows and dark notes,
singing down the same halls,
crying to loves of different names and different faces,
all for the same tears and tears.