Adam M. Snow
For Whom the Hour Tolls
For whom the hour tolls,
beyond the smoke and mirrors;
the speeding of devoted souls,
perching, like a somber crow-
on time itself, afraid to go.
Entranced by a tune of many flaws,
the child we are, like an ant in a labyrinth.
A victim to its own laws,
aging with time not the hour;
a life like a gentle flower.
Like sands from an hourglass, we fall,
with no purpose, but that of our own.
In our dreams we see it all,
the tragedy of this world has befallen,
the great of man has fallen.
For love, we do not mourn the loss of man,
in the wake of time itself.
We mourn the lies that once did stand,
in the hopes of what sorrow may bring,
a tragedy of a king.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(c. 600 BCE)
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