You know, I only have one more month before we are in 2o19! That means I need to write new poetry for a whole New Year. Hope I'm up for it. P.S. Remember, if you can't read the poetry on the art piece, click the pic and it will get larger.
Night
Comes 3:41 am
I can
feel time passing through me.
My bones
argue, shake their fists
at the
injustice, the pain time lays
on them.
Even my skin won’t accept
the
wrinkles, the natural scaring of time’s
stiletto
blade as its years cut through
the blood
vessels of what was once
a youthful face. My consciousness
is
reasonable, though. The mind chooses
to be
philosophical about it all. But late
at night
when I’m falling away inside
a dream,
my soul cries out, the unfairness
of time’s
hold on the body, the heart.
Unfair
that we, we human things
should
shrink and slowly fade away
back to
the grave from which we sprang.
Woodie
11-1o-17 (rewrites11-29-18)
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