Picking The Day (apart)
None get to pick the day that they grow oldBut an apple never falls very far from the tree
In the marketplace masses are bought and sold
Souls are bundled, labeled ' To Be Destroyed'
The world never skips s s s a b e a t
It happens faster than an eye can blink
Just a written fade splotched in ghostly ink,
Seas and skies of endless faces laugh or cry
Smile inside a while yet as you may
So soon the sun too shall burn away
Wonder of matter the day that you die
The only prayer to hope is at long last life is free
Locked inside these moments bending to fold
None get to pick the day that they grow old
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2013-05-27 at 01:19
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