She spoke of silver in my hair,
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.
If grief has painted strands with time,
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.
Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 3:58 AM UTC
She spoke of silver in my hair,
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.
If grief has painted strands with time,
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.
Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.
Request permission to use this poem