To Seneca - On the shortness of Life

Even the sweetest rose will fade
and its leaves dwindle to dust.
Its'red will turn a darker shade
and decay as all things must.

The youngest of us all will die
despite a life with youth besotten.
We're bound to burn to ash and fly
unbridled, buried and forgotten.

A tune will faintly call us home
to that place where we belong
where Pilgrim souls can cease to roam
and join in the endless song.



Poetry by An-ders
Read 680 times
Written on 2013-07-22 at 01:02

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