Sands of time are the tiny rocks from the mountains I tread upon on my way down to the sea

I remember all the best
Deep in my midnight's rest
Now I remember the kiss
that brings tears to my eyes
I remember riding bicycles
Under October skies
Now there is no chance
No turning back
Or looking back to glance
Because you will not be there

So the memories have been
Written off the page
The recovery has all been staged
Turn your head and say
To the ghosts of another day
I wish you well
Just as when we were all so naieve
In our wildest dreams
we never thought to learn to grieve
Now all I can say . . .
I wish you well

in this age of vanishing dreams
and crying ghosts
I find myself drawn again and again
an undying connection
to this work of art
so out of time upon its creation
as to be an endless fascination for me
so unlike the artist
this suffering soul
who's immense love and anguish
for the less fortunate
coupled with a talent too immense
for one man
created a burden that weighed upon his shoulders
and his heart like a million captured tears
then once upon a beautiful dream
or perhaps just a clever thought or a baby's smile
a brief respite from the pain
he created the contradiction of his lifetime
as if to say to all that may come to know him
through what history dictates
'You see...I was not crazy!'
and The Smoking Skull
was born