Him
Sand’s time slips through my fingers
Separating now from then
And me from him
Him, silent as the grave
The petty pace creeps on
The rain still falls
An echo of yesterday fades
Lost in the face of death
Silently enveloping all in
Empty misery
No more strut or fret anymore
Not even a fair hour on stage
But never, never ‘merely’ a player
He was so much more
A friend
The sands of time
Cruel harbingers of fate
Trickling away,
To the last syllable of recorded time
And nothingness
Copyright © Matthew Doyle | Year Posted 2009
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