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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 ardor 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 shattered
and seconds cease their fuss
until life
becomes a memory
sharing its page with dust
Abracadabra
Written by Abracadabra
Published
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