Quietus

A million chance of loiter to birth.

Is the birth of seeking rabid reasons of such chance.

With all mortals worthy of such praise.

Such reasons on thine eyes and forehead gaze.

 

With time, death knew no haste.

Triumphant in every minute a mortal waste.

Serf in time's constraint, own time is thy immortality.

Buried in sepulchral sepia we see.

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

This is a vast canvas, spanning seasons from birth to death.. life's moments in colorful reflections. Sharply cut, line by line.

[roarke]

Huge stuff here.
"Triumphant in every minute a mortal waste." indeed.

Looking through the amber of eternity and trying to express what you see. You get it, but there's no way to describe it. And yet you've done an admirable job.

Nice expression.