Cruel Companions

Life runs its hand

Down its colorless creation

Weaving its wrinkled timelines

And taunting its tribulation.

 

Beckons the wiser to dwindle

When the soul grows cold

A wretched, rhythmic pattern

Of a man grown too old.

 

Time runs its hand

Down its weary creation

Leaving behind no lifeline

For loss and lamentation.

 

Beckons the stronger to stumble

When the heart grows cold

A wretched, rhythmic pattern

Of a woman grown old.

 

So youth accept

This inevitable consequence

That suffering comes soon

For Life and Time are cruel companions

And they are coming for you.

Reviews

[marcus]

Ah, time is always the cruelest, and kindest, of all companions, and it's the only one that will never leave you. I think this poems really good!

[Mia]

Thank you. sir! :) I appreciate it.