The morning breaks, then fades by noon,
The day is gone, the night comes soon.
We chase the light, we grasp, we plead—
Yet time still plants its quiet seed.
The footsteps that we leave in sand
Are smoothed away by nature’s hand.
No matter how we fight or cry,
All marks we make are meant to die.
The voices loud, the dreams we shout,
Are swallowed whole by creeping doubt.
We rise, we fall, we laugh, we weep—
And still, we’re carried into sleep.
Ashes scattered on the breeze,
Names forgotten by the seas.
What once was precious, fierce, and proud,
Now drifts unseen beneath a cloud.
A fleeting kiss, a fleeting scar,
A fleeting wish upon a star—
They all dissolve, they all grow cold,
As time reclaims what it once sold.
Yet in that end, a peace is born,
A place beyond regret and scorn.
The wheel must turn, the song must cease—
To make the space for newer peace.
So while the glass still holds some sand,
Reach out, reach out with open hand.
For life will slip, and death will mend—
And we are here, and then we end.
No comments:
Post a Comment