adventures in dysthymia

Monday, August 03, 2015

Coal, a poem


Time may turn coal to a diamond
but also a plum to a prune;
I’m gaining not facets but wrinkles,
and it’s happening too soon.

It’s rarely we are at the dusk
the same as we were at noon;
The instrument that once played well
must go out of tune.

Gods of marble will soften,
no matter how well they are hewn,
and time erodes even mountains;
nothing is immune.

I look in the mirror and see
a poorly drawn cartoon
of the likeness vanity made;
time's burst my balloon.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

A bit of light verse (or maybe doggerel)

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