Cut Down
Man, the funeral rhetoric intones
Is like a flower of the field
Rising up to be cut down;
Until he is no more than dust and bones,
And in the earth remains concealed
Beneath the prison ground.
Yet still, the drag of ages rumbles on
As the world in truth rotates
Spinning round in time and space;
And I will wait until all time is gone,
Eternal dreaming ruminates
And dreams will dwell upon your face.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
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