his hands are full of stories
he may never get to tell
and wandering the streets today
he must've thought they fell
the memories are staggered
shorter, closer, weaker
s t i l l
together their depiction
was a life he had until
he sat upon the stones
and let the cold into his head
erased the only thoughts
that reassured he wasn't dead
but now the days are passing
with a quickening delay
and everything he hadn't said
is chasing him away
so if you see him running
tell him time is running too
that if he can't outrun it
there is nothing he can do