Days—
the face of time,
more unreal than life,
a flickering sign.
Laughing as they fly,
cut loose, unchained,
to places unnamed,
beyond history’s frame.

They give us breath,
dress heaven in play,
then twist every gift
into serpents and decay.
Unaware how far
from that warm embrace,
we fall, we crawl,
and the days pray—
humble, frail.

Oh days
Close your eyes,
turn back the stream,
because in the end
only dust will dream.

And the days keep falling,
blindfolded, bound,
carved by a hunger
that eats its own sound.
Empty, wearing
spring’s borrowed face,
unable to praise life
or honor its grace.

They open unopened doors
for rulers equal to ours dust,
empty-garden kings
drunk on power and rust.
They won’t know the verse,
won’t hear the call,
that once whispered softly:
you will fall.

Oh days
Close your eyes,
turn back the stream,
because in the end
only dust will dream.

So let the days touch them,
slow, cold, precise,
when perfection, bright as light,
cuts itself twice.
Bleeding belief,
feeding the dark,
leaving the world
with a permanent mark.

And today,
inside a chained dream,
I turn toward madness,
or so it may seem.
Waiting for the day
our careful design
will bloom—
when even the day
turns to dust in time.

Oh days
Close your eyes,
turn back the stream,
because in the end
only dust will dream.