I am running out of time.
The hands keep poking at my mind — this ought to be a crime
The days are a dripping headache — like the ceiling.
My dry skin is peeling — losing all feeling.
I cannot defeat such winding sadness — ticking is reeling.
My hours are robbed — such a horrid stealing.
Remaining are always dropping minutes of heartache.
Remaining is a bucketing wake.
For heavens sake — pause the gears by this house on the lake!
Can no one hear my heart quake?
Nothing will be left,
but a memory theft!