Time, like a lover who's lost interest,
Goes on, rather unconcerned,
Ignoring all our tiny woes
Or what we chose, or where we've turned
Or just what forests we might think
Are beautiful, or full of fall,
Or why the sense we bring to things
Most often, is no sense at all
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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