Precious turning moments are slashed away
that wilt the life from a dashing bouquet.
Two skeleton dance at the ball,
yet feeling so lively but won’t in no time at all.
Simply seen, you mustn’t mean
I am lost only but in these scenes.
A trembling soul is bound to die,
and I ask, “Why, why, why?”
Run, we must, to escape our fate.
As the threads unwind and decay my cape.
Old in time, we grow weak.
Moments within moments,