When life is a too brief page of poetry,
a start that climbs to interruption;
words yet rising to the high point
an unmet crescendo of song.
Simply not long enough it seems
to meet the reach of dreams, the utter want…
the deep passion for things not done
We can see the race against time;
apace, never won, for it covers like a skin.
Yet we contend for it is all we know-
just as the voice within- it carries our truths.
Until it leaves and just the others race on,
those done and those yet to be…found in untold mystery
as faith and spirit speak of light.
When life is a deep ache, an emptiness;
a dreaded silence at the end of love
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