Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend


Such is the fickle world. Of sheep led by wolves and fortunes made by fathers to be wasted by their sons.For all the world lay in moments eager to pass and unwilling to stay. To the soft and supple cheeks of youth which turn to experienced and tired flesh.

Moments of lies to younger ones, that all things might be as simple as they are when the only concern is play, and but a few moments longer begged before it is time to be laid to rest.

Everything is a memory, some long complete, lost and faded. Others in the making or unmaking to hide the truth.

The only hope the future holds is that the present might not go so fast. But hope is a double edged sword. With one edge, one strikes towards fate. With the other, one severs ones own flesh and cuts too deep.

At least both life and death hold dreams. Yet still as moments and memories, all is fleeting.

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