The Reaper

The Reaper

 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
Pieces of matter or wanderlust?
 
All things must pass, both good and bad.
Few certainties exist, or can be had.
 
Stairways, portals, theories exist;
Round and round they surely twist.
 
Ghosts and castles, fortresses sealed tight.
Penetrate them, or fear that others might.
 
Does the wind cry or sing a pretty song?
Fear not, it depends which way she blows.
 


Posted In: Poems

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