Mysterious powers move us about,
elongating happy hours,
much longer dreary hours,
quering, this route.
The wither of time,
has rolled cheerless eyes,
visage gone to no sight,
a search in a dreary plight.
Dreads are no longer here,
just psych and tears,
that old bust,
turned to rust.
Sunk in a somber song,
we hear the bell rung,
amidst the shade,
a cradle a charade.
Somber tune,
crypt fills it soon,
rocking the moon,
floating and marooned.
A year gone,
crumbling tower,
defying noble power,
why, so sour.
Beauty of yesterday,
will bloom embalmed,
in the old tomb,
in everlasting bloom.
© Copyright Sergio A. Morales All Rights Reserved
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