Final Hour
The dust was falling faintly on my head
and I could hear the saw and wood outside,
the setting sun has gone; I will be dead
before it can return, and now my ears
can hear only a crashing, roaring tide
and I will learn the meaning true....of fear.
Copyright ©
Jake A. | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
