G.R. Gaus (April 11 1950 / St. Louis)
Winter's day has seen its last,
The clocks are winding down,
O're the hills a shadow's cast,
Lamenting; the lonely sound.
Desolation again and again,
The chair it rocks the seconds,
Gazing through a dirty pane,
Upon emptiness that beckons.
Counting years, long foregone,
Empty home's, a living tomb,
Distant friends, all passed on,
Daylight; moves room to room.
A tear dried track upon the cheek,
Fond memories burn the mind,
Once youth, now feeble and weak,
All things; must pass with time.
Darkness falls gently o're the land,
A cold body embraced by the bed,
Hourglass empty's, last grain of sand,
Opened book, will lie unread.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
A calm settles through the home,
Even new metal shall turn to rust,
Our demise we must face alone.
Choose; this day, with whom you wish to be,
Choose wisely of now, through your eternity.
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