The big hand of the clock reaches 12
and the little one 9.
The sunbeams flutter across my room
and on the clay pot spewing verdant vines.
I lay there still
savoring the quiet,
the blackbird's trill,
serene idle streets
and trees swaying on distant hills
At that very moment
I come to realize
that I have never truly lived
this thing called life.
I've been blind
my chest heaves,
its aches and burns,
my minutes, fleet.
Should have taken a moment
an hour, a day
should have known my efforts were futile
When I strived to outrun age.
Now my life's a colorless,
tattered, empty page,
still longing to be written on
but my quill is about to break;
Still dreaming to taste the memories
I never got to make
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a/n: sorry for not posting for so long. been busy with schoolwork. How r u?
do you like this poem? comment how I can improve it. :)
*virtual hug*
artwork: The Death of Albine by John Maller Collier
