The clock still ticks but the hands are bent,
Counting the hours of this life I've spent.
The shimmer is gone, the edges are worn,
Battered by a life where praise is scorn.
Shattered glass where your image should be,
A puzzle with pieces that only cut me.
I sweep up the shards but the dust remains,
A memory flows as a ghost through my veins.
There is no snarl and no will to fight,
I've given up hope, lost touch with the light.
There wasn't a snap, only silent descent,
A lifetime of living with a heart that's rent.
This eternal theft of the person I was,
Finds its quiet ending, in a silent because.