THE HAND OF TIME
The hand of Time has touched the bloom
Which now begins to slowly droop
To end what started in the womb;
The upright head begins to stoop.
Supple edges begin to fray,
Colors start to slowly pale
Till all is turned to ashen gray;
What once was strong turns weak and frail.
Each petal will drop one by one
Till nothing’s left but barren stem.
No longer felt the warming sun;
Grows faint the light before the end.