Cold and lonely, no one can escape time,
It is the beating of ones heart to stand,
It's the flips of head and tails of a dime.
It's the pulsing thread of the living land.
The breaths we take only know its mark,
Its constant flow in rhythm with the heart,
Even in the endlessness of the dark.
Everlasting, unwavering, in part.

Yet we keep track of it every day.
Holding on to seconds with worn hope,
It is as if we expect it to stay.
But when the end has come no one can cope.

But I can escape the fate of mortals,
As long as this holds the pulls of quarrels.