We tend to long for time that's disappeared
Although we know we'll never get it back
It's gone. It's gone, exactly as we feared
A train that travels down a rusty track
The rusty track of time is still traversed
By everyone, regardless of their age
A play of destination, unrehearsed
Performed upon a creaky wooden stage
If time was just a sonnet, who would write
The little song that everyone must sing
But, out of tune or even out of sight
We know the final couplet time will bring
From time to time the similes get old
Like grapes that turn to wine or bread to mold.
This entry was posted on Friday, May 1st, 2026 at 7:11 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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