Time's Up
How time doth flow,
Like grains of sand,
From the bony fingers,
Of death’s cold hand.
A blood stained scythe,
His weapon of choice,
A broken hourglass,
His haunting voice.
His cold blade hacking,
Piercing skin and bone,
No time for forgiveness,
No time to atone.
Copyright © Marilyn Hernandez | Year Posted 2007
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