History
Out of the past
A rumble comes,
Quaking.
Old ghosts haunt even
The prudent.
There is a chill in the air,
Even a storm.
The old days are flat
Like worn tires.
The past is a worn tire;
It rolls like thunder,
Killing everything
In its path.
Time rolls over the living
Until they live no more.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2016
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