Adam M. Snow (5/30/1988 / Phoenix, AZ)
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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