Along The Resurrection March

Time is the baby cradle
Turning into a coffin,
Teenagers making love
In the backseat of a car
Becoming an elderly couple
Holding hands in a grocery store,
Time can be a terrible distance
With an incline more steep
Than a mountain peak
Unapproachable by explorers,
Time is the poetry
Of melancholy memories
That must vanish in the grave.

by Uriah Hamilton

Comments (2)

Time passes and we must go with it. But if our poetry speaks well of us, we have not lived in vain. I agree with Rajaram. This is an excellent poem. Warmest regards, Sandra
An excellent poem-Time and tide waits for no man.