To Seneca - On the shortness of Life
Even the sweetest rose will fadeand its leaves dwindle to dust.
Its'red will turn a darker shade
and decay as all things must.
The youngest of us all will die
despite a life with youth besotten.
We're bound to burn to ash and fly
unbridled, buried and forgotten.
A tune will faintly call us home
to that place where we belong
where Pilgrim souls can cease to roam
and join in the endless song.
Poetry by An-ders
Read 742 times
Written on 2013-07-22 at 01:02
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