Book of Death

I’ll always find it crazy,
how time moves slow and fast.
The irony of a life so quick,
when it’s meant to last.

On certain days I can’t recall
what pains my memory.
Yet other times I press rewind
and cannot help but see.

Sometimes I’ll ask “Do you remember that?”
It was sheer love between you and I.
But love starts with bones
then turns to dust,
that gets damp from the tears I cry.

I once was a girl who had a grip,
now a woman who’s lost her hold.
A million stories within my mind,
and not one of them is told.

Poet: Stefanie ParrottĀ 


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