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Poort. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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The air in this room is stifling, though the leaves are red and gold,
I see the breeze move through them and my hands are dry and cold.
The hands of the clock are racing, though the scene remains unchanged,
I still lie here facing a portrait without a name.
I would call you back to me, but with each passing day,
There is less of me to return to, an evanescent shade.
Come back to me at evensong, clear the cobwebs from round my head,
Give me your, hand, your covenant, and join me in this bed.
The days are passing swiftly, and with them all my strength,
My life is an hourglass in the autumn, my heart a rope at its length.