Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

Time

An old woman
Sits by herself,
Staring at her past
Arranged on a shelf.
Time is money
Or so they say,
Time stands still
Then slips away.
A baby is born
His first sound
An angry cry,
A rose in bloom
is ready to die.
Time waits for no one
Then it just marches on,
It goes by too fast
Then it takes too long.

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