Oh mirror, how you speak,
of truth's bitter reason;
reality in no way flattering.
At the time of youth,
when eternity is far,
immortal we believe to be.
Time, true agent of sorrow,
creeps upon humanity enduringly;
let there be no doubt, She will come
like a thief in a cold, restless night.
Like an ending chapter of a book
forgotten, so will be the morn
of the final day.
Albeit may seem endless
to bored bystanders,
the whining of those who're
passing becomes a segment
of judgment, remorse, fear and hope;
a prelude to everlasting permanence.
Your beauty will not save you;
all matter rotts away like a carrion.
Your Lust will not pay your deed;
what's done is done,
what not, fades away.
Your words are lost in the wind.
Their generating breath will be
no more; like waves hitting shore,
with their foam lost in endless sand.
Remember, you don't own your day!
It's yours to lease till Mistress is away.
Death is our release; all memories,
eventually, like mist, fade away.
Don't think about tomorrow.
You don't know if you will end today.
Written by Juvenalis66
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