How many lives does anyone have?
How many seconds do I have?
Old Time takes its toll.
Pray tell me, what should I do?
There you set my goal.
You dictate my every move.
I see a life devoid of chalk:
One where I make pretty pictures.
Another at mountains I gawk
through lenses costing my futures.
Perhaps these prey I need not stalk;
I just paint these pretty pictures.
I see a life free from ink:
It is an inkling of harmony.
Strings sound and only my hands think.
Maybe a writer sounds funny,
but into my talks your mind will sink –
the joke’s I’ll have no money.
I see those lives and so much more
from the chains made of plastic tubes.
When I was bold I shut those doors.
Now drinking food ‘cause I can’t chew,
with legs that can move me no more,
I see the truth as good as new.
Old Time continues its stroll.
And I still don’t know what to do.
But should you see your own goal,
don’t let them dictate your every move.
How many lives does anyone have?
How many seconds do you have?