There's a presence right beside me,
And all around me, too.
Rushing, dripping, I feel time,
And all of those it's left behind.
I feel the heartbeat of the past,
Of every love that didn't last.
And as the wind blows through the trees,
I muse, 'When will it be me?
When will my life be a story?
Thought up in some author's head,
That hears the whispers of the dead.
When will it be me?'
The sun rises and I see,
Time is dripping, dripping by.
Forever, death is doomed to sigh,
"They never learn, they never find,
The lessons I have left behind."