We strive for the secret,
Yet never quite reach it.
And the old are still the young
With grayer hair and paper skin,
While the child plays house
In Mama's clothes,
Innocent, yet knowing.
Time is a way of life,
Caught for a fleeting second
Yet forever changing
Into an entity of its own,
Though we never speak,
But for ourselves,
Our world changes
Even as we cling to our yesterdays.


Comments: 26
~3000~
No matter the title Shelbia...this is an excellent read.
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Good stuff.
because all through the poem is 'Life'. simply fantastic! *smiles*
just a thought.
(this piece is rife with simple, ponderous truth. -i've come to expect this of you...)
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