Poem: Identity

What can a man become?
How can he stand the tide?
O sands of passing years,
Are we but dying dust?
Must life, so brief, end now?
I search, but do not know.

1 Comment

  1. I’m not sure Job beat you. Can you keep it up? Leave the dour on the page and let the sadness of the countenance thereafter make the heart glad.

    Like

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