Pastime

How many of us waste our lives, our precious time.

As we stumble through life,

Creating ways of passing time,

Becomes our major pastime,

While we complain,

That we have so little.

And then the end.

The cliff on a broken road.

Sheer, sudden, brutal.

We plummet to the sea,

Turning as we fall,

To envy the clouds,

That once held our heads,

Now clutched in our hands,

As we recall all.

As we recall nothing.

As we recall,

Our wasted mortal lifetime.

Author's Note

poetry not my forte but interested in any constructive reviews :)

Reviews

[Westminster Abbey]

Wow. This is amazing! You have a real talent with poetry! Don't ever stop writing! 100/100!

[h cingisiz]

Wow! Thank you! Words to spur me on (I've only just begun writing so your encouragement means a great deal) Thanks again.