What was, what is, what will be
Is never the same
A constant turning of the clock
With each strike, time changes
Faces come, faces fade
Into the abyss
Where souls gather
Ones we knew, we know, will know
Each with their proper time
And their proper place
On the edge of the platform
Blurry like the faces of autumn
With each wheel turning
Stealing away the memories
Until
They
Shatter
Like a million pieces of glass
To be swept and thrown away
And yet some linger
Between and beneath
The floorboards
Of this old house
Never, I fear, to vanish
About the Creator
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More stories from Anne J. Hill and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Love Forboding
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
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