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Aug 2015
There is a distinct sense of rising panic,
It pushes against my bones, my ribs, my heart.
I was led to believe the last breath is quick,
But it seems that Time has fought to play his part.
Till the flame brings the candle down to the wick,
Till the artist paints himself into the art.
The wind will still blow and the bells will still chime,
But still tied to his word, Death will follow Time.
This poem follows the ottava rima form
Written by
NF  England
(England)   
692
   Rapunzoll
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