They’re born, they live, they die.

That’s how the clock ticks.

The waterfall of blood that holds

Our stories cascades down the rocky cliff

And I stand, scythe in hand, waiting.

Waiting for ichor to flow. 

For my own end to arrive.

For the last atom of immortal life to drift down that waterfall.

Flowery and lilac temptation wafts through the ravine

As I stand watch over the river. 

“Humans are so much like clockwork”

Nothing new, until 

that line of gold streaks through the merlot. 

That sweet ambrosia of Olympus I’ve missed. 

Yet I ate the pomegranate and I don’t regret a thing.

The sour seeds crunch under souls feet,

And the river keeps flowing, 

And we keep moving,

Until that last drop of ichor flows. 

They’re born, they live, they die.

That’s how the clock ticks,

Until the end of time