Pray what use to me, the philosopher's stone?
That wretched thing which draws out pain
A life without love, all alone
The prolonging of which is not a gain
So i seek not knowledge of that sacred art
That wise men termed alchemy
I seek to sew this broken heart
To live again my History
A time machine would serve to stitch
The shredded rags of the now
Stained, ripped, torn, the state of which
Cast a constant frown upon my brow
Oh heartless time i offer to thee
My broken heart and heavy soul
If in return you could give to me
The days which once made me whole.
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