The Years Poem by W.F.D. BLCK

The years go by breeze on vine along the long circles of time.
The telling of a season gives and strips away. Makes one look
at past reflecting days. Through the interior eye there will
be dreams. The reality of tears on field and stream. The turning
page of age sets on brisk wings. Living joys and pains strokes
the violin strings. Things beginning and ending cycle is universal.
In our tumbling existence there is good and there's evil.
So the stories flow with the passing of the years.