Life, we don't always get it
we let it slip, we let it fall
slither quickly down a crack before we stand up,
lost it all.
Scramble, scramble, furious find already gone
bound sands of time.
Night so dark it's navy blue, waiting daily,
drawing to a close my days, my little hours.
I stare out glumly, what's your charge?
Night, she glides now glowly grey,
your day is done child, wiped away.
All you hold is a memory box.
Her question swirls, an inky dance:
Can you stand and say in the pull of all,
that you stood for something, you stood tall?
Gently night with a guiding hand,
hovers and covers moments, plans.
She lays to rest this day of mine,
her question lingers, so pressing. Time.
Please leave critique. Contact me on fran.thring@gmail.com
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