Time
Time
All is lost, so gradual the theft of hope,
when a day is but a day, no more,
every action but a shadow, copied,
from countless days put to rest.
To live, see or feel, something new,
as a child, eyes wide in wonder,
the mysteries still that, and now,
no more puzzles to solve, joy sleeps.
Stoic.
Copyright © Stephen Allen | Year Posted 2012
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