I hate the way the day drifts by,
How the tens become elevens then one, two, three.
It’s a counting clock that resets each night,
When sleep tricks me into believing dreams.
I try to face forward on this train through time,
Though the winds blow me back to past stories,
I’ll never be able to breathe the whole sky,
A child of blood, barely tasting infinity.
An eye that see’s