Your years will pa** you by in braids of smoke
Keeping what you can in the cups of your hands
Your years will linger in the fabrics of your clothes
Settle in the folds and sheets of your bed
There is a scent to remind you of the hazy games memory can you play
No one cared to warn you that your days would slowly plot against you
Taking what they can
Your feelings of forever sprang a leak
Spitting out your youth in a constant waves of weeks
This is it. Your complex contest to feel content
Taking what you can get
This is it. Your complex content, with your army of grey days on the march
At best, you'll find new ways to mute the monotony
At bets, you'll try and forget
At best, you'll push sixty
Sleeping at night properly
Coping with the possibility the extent to your life has all been lived out