Tick of the womb, tock of the tomb,
the hands keep carving scars in the moon;
every heartbeat pays the rent
to a landlord called Accident.
I wind my shadow, it winds me back—
rust in my lungs, gears turning black.
Love is a second that refuses to pass,
pain is the hour that shatters the glass.
Still I dance on the rim of the dial,
a spark in the teeth of the crocodile.