On The Wings Of Time

Yesterday, today, tomorrow,
On the wings of song, each is the whisper of Time's beating heart,
The reflection in Age's pool
Wrinkled in ripples torn apart
By shadows. Plush purple dawns,
Liquid fiery orange flamed sunsets,
Each is a rhythm of melodious melody
Which the quiet dreamer never forgets.
The shadows stretch out black fingers scraping
Each cloud for one last dream, one last song
Before ebony nimble night fades
Into the stark flash of the velveteen flash of purple throng
Which boldly announces the continuous beating
Of Time's heart, and as man stands in awe of it all,
Though he considers himself large in his worldly ways,
He amidst all of Age's beauty discovers just how small
He really is, and that in the silent scheme of things
Whether lowly or knowledgeable sage,
Against the beating of Time's eternal heart,
Man is but dust, a brief, fleeting pen stroke on Eternity's page.

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