Time Cries
Why must enjoyable times wither?
On Sunday, the flowers flourish,
Yet on Monday, they perish.
Time flies
To an ether unknown
With weeping eyes.
The lion’s groan
To the lover, cries.
All flesh to the bone,
Which my soul denies,
Prows once again, alone.
Copyright © Lennon Hammett | Year Posted 2022
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