Lost Year

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For my friend:

Winter’s sting began last spring,
over one year last,
that’s when he passed away,
now all she can pray is; “help me hold fast.”
Time and doubt are all strung out,
in the ceaseless pale dream,
but memories sustain,
and she doesn’t complain;
as she’s carried upon life’s stream.

Meanwhile, the toiling world flashes by:
And men’s souls rise and fail,
like the stream in the pale dream,
on its wintry race, never ceases the pace,
dwell on its lonesome face.


Creative Commons LicenseThis work by dschwietert is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

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