His Last Sun's Set Poem by Francie Lynch
His Last Sun's Set
Time is running out on us,
The hands replace the feet;
Hasn't time run out on him?
What time can we meet?
His ebb's my flow,
His desert my beach,
His frozen bed my sundae,
Wrap him in white sheets.
His fall's my rise;
Will you close his eyes?
Has the shifting finished yet?
Count his hairs,
His last sun's set.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: jealousy,death
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5/19/2024 1:14:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
