Dec 1, 2022
1 min read
Decay
A poem
All decays into despair and death,
even the hopeful ones fall prey to the final breath.
Flowers fade and their leaves wither.
Trees grow old and rot.
What hope awaits me?
None that I can see or feel.
Except a foolish hope,
a splinter of resurrection in reality,
a crack in the dark mirror of the abyss.
All will fall.
All, God-willing, will be made new.
