Get Your Premium Membership


Clock counts the time on its hands Soft Slience stands Lack becomes Grains of sand Only notice when stuck to our feet Retreat Washed away Mud They name is And no one recalls Why Once we are gone

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.