The Ends Of Time Poem by James Papastamos

The Ends Of Time



My arms grew weak from having more
to hold, to cradle and caress;
than I could possibly endure,
for I am meek...not more, no less.

The hours shall reap what minutes plow
its garden soils my field of dreams;
A giant clock now weighs upon
my timeless soul, for so it seems.

The end of time digs well behind
the speed at which my heart doth pave;
They race, its finish line draws near
and trace my cancer's final move.

How cruel was time to run on me.

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