Within fond dreams of immortality
There spates of reason may yet interject
Brief scenes of such abject finality
To shake the very cause of that quaint quest.
Now stands before us fearsome mighty Time,
His rusted sword still dripping with fresh blood;
Defiant, dark, delighting in foul crime,
Bellicose, bleak, belligerent and proud.
What power do we hold against such force?
What heart of flesh can here yet make a stand?
Must we now bow as slave to forgone course?
What action such could stay his cruel hand?
Of leveled sand whereto his joy may thrive,
Look on this ruin, yet truth and love survive.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.