skip to Main Content

Last night the boy was thirteen
This morning he is thirty
To look out of his window
Asking ‘where did the days go?’
Like pages of an open book
Turned by the wind.

But that is truth and that is life
To sleep a child and wake a man
And your memory of all between
As clear as a pot of mud
While you are ready
Like a clown on the battleground.

Leave a Comment!

This Post Has One Comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Back To Top