These blurry faces haunt me,
As efforts of recollection are vain,
For each scattered memory,
Is a wound that inflicts pain.

A sandcastle built in a lifetime,
Crumbling into the ground,
Even the gentlest touch of this old hand,
Turns it back into sand.

What a heinous crime,
To make this childish soul frown,
No choice but to endure,
As there is no cure,
In living to forget every second that's lent,
A life simply waiting for its end.