Echoes of Time

The sound of running time, a relentless beat,
burns the impression of shadows discreet.
A whispering presence, a ghost in the air,
etching its mark in a mind laid bare.

Blowing the touch of death through the breeze,
spreading my thoughts like scattered leaves.
Pieces of me float, lost to the wind,
as the shadow's embrace slowly begins.

Time races forward, it leaves no trace,
but the burn of its passage scars my face.
Each second a spark that lights the decay,
breaking my mind, tearing it away.

The touch of death is cold yet kind,
it reaches deep, unravels the mind.
A shiver, a tremor, as pieces fall—
the fragments of self, broken and small.

The shadows grow darker, the hours burn,
the point of no return is where I turn.
For time is a thief, and death is the muse
that sings to me softly of what I will lose.

Running faster, the clock hands spin,
etching their rhythm deep within.
The sound of time is a mournful sigh,
as the pieces of me are left to die.

In the ashes, in the darkened air,
a part of me dissolves, beyond repair.
Yet still, I hold to the fleeting light,
fighting the shadows that steal my sight.

For what is time but a cruel disguise,
a veil that hides the truth in lies?
And what is death but a touch so cold,
that takes the pieces we cannot hold?

So let the sound of running time persist,
let it burn and scatter what I resist.
For in the shadows where the pieces break,
I find a sliver of truth for my soul to take.