Your years will pass 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