The Hand Of Time

By PoeticMeditations

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.


About poeticmeditations

A 19th-century romantic poet living in the 21st-century. The Romantic poets, nib pens, candlelight, waistcoats, and pocket watches are a few of my favorite things.
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