Passing of Time
When the sun becomes a frosty sno-cone.
And all mountains sink as giant souffles.
The desert is now mudpuddles to play.
The seas fall out with the tide calling home.
Oceans say goodbye with one final wave.
The clock doesn't tick, and it doesn't tock.
Dreams become nightmares for our final day.
Chemicals and molecules turn to spray.
Souls uncertain future smote by the shock.
No passing of time left, no more dismay.
Copyright © Frank Simon | Year Posted 2006
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