Slowly decaying,
under no pressure,
time will pass,
without measure.
In a box,
alone with love,
future fleeting,
for all to see.
By the wayside,
across the bay,
people few,
none can save.
Time to end,
as false life beckons,
Poets lone,
langauge lessens.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Slowly decaying,
under no pressure,
time will pass,
without measure.
In a box,
alone with love,
future fleeting,
for all to see.
By the wayside,
across the bay,
people few,
none can save.
Time to end,
as false life beckons,
Poets lone,
langauge lessens.
Request permission to use this poem