Along The Resurrection March
Time is the baby cradle
Turning into a coffin,
Teenagers making love
In the backseat of a car
Becoming an elderly couple
Holding hands in a grocery store,
Time can be a terrible distance
With an incline more steep
Than a mountain peak
Unapproachable by explorers,
Time is the poetry
Of melancholy memories
That must vanish in the grave.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Added by Poetry Lover
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