Treasure Island

Uriah Hamilton


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.

Submitted: Sunday, July 22, 2007
Edited: Wednesday, March 23, 2011

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Comments about this poem (Along The Resurrection March by Uriah Hamilton )

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  • Sandra Fowler (8/4/2007 8:52:00 AM)

    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 (Report) Reply

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