A Rhapsody in ProseA Poem by Robert Francis Callacieven the stones grow old and dieIn the ground under this etched marble stone; lies withered old bones dried out, broken, brittle and worn; from that adversary called Time. As the bones turn to dust and memories fade into oblivion that etched marble stone is all that is left of a life lived poorly. Even a life lived not well is better then to have not lived at all. But once that etched marble stone crumbles and fades from time’s relentless tick tock tick; It’s as if those bones never existed at all. If those bones don’t exist then that life spent poorly; Was no life at all
© 2009 Robert Francis CallaciAuthor's Note
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5 Reviews Added on January 31, 2009 AuthorRobert Francis CallaciPort Richey, FLAboutMy passion is writing- I've been writing a mythological tale on the many facets and faces of GOD- I've been a net poet for the past seventeen years- I'm a former admin at lit .org and active one (Patr.. more..Writing
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