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Deathmarch of Days

 
As a child  
the touch was so light  
It almost felt  
I could brush it aside  
There was surely time  
to live forever  
before the hand on my shoulder  
grew heavier  
and my heart knew  
the ardour of its press  
The weight of each day  
added dutifully to the next  
My poison of sunsets  
fed drop by drop  
until every new moon  
cried blood  
and the scorn  
of wheeling birds  
grew harsher  
as each dawn broke  
Only the hand knows  
how many more blue skies  
before the soul is scattered  
and seconds cease their fuss  
until life  
becomes a memory  
sharing its page with dust
Written by Abracadabra
Published | Edited 9th Nov 2021
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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