Somber tones of grey and black,
The clenched fist,
The red face,
The pounding chest,
The tear running down the cheek.
The mouth not able to speak.
Not an untterance.
Not a word.
A silent cold stare from you, to the world, back to you.
This borrowed time,
The language of life,
The language of mine.
The empty mind.
The cold heart.
The hand outstretched,
Living on borrowed time,
That story of mine.
The language through which life speaks.
This borrowed time through which I speak.
This borrowed time made up of me.
I drift through this borrowed time.
And drift off, into the distance.