Poem By Nick Hilton

Are we but grains of sand,
Upon the beach of life,
With the ever moving,
Menace of destiny,
To snatch us from our strife.

Are we but corn in a field,
Lost in the summer heat,
With the ever present,
Harvest time,
To make us into wheat.

Are we but souls upon the earth,
Struggling for a worth,
With the ever looming,
Time of death,
To take away our birth.

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Other poems of HILTON

Cat Among The Chickens

Through ocean of feathers,
The murder would be soundless,

Chickens In Poetry

Have you looked beneath the surface,
Of the greatest poems and verse,
And seen that almost always,
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Can we rent a boat and go,

Can you even row,

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O my feathery friend,
Some wicked mans hands,
Have grasped your throat,
That Jack the Ripper,


Knowing that the abyss ahead,
May consume me,
Knowing that the trial ahead,
May destoy me,

The Palm Of My Hand

The lines cross like motorways,
And the rain leaves splashes on the roads,
There are no cars,
Just the pen,