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Loss

They slowly slip away,

one by aging one,

limping down alone

these ancient saints

take little with them

but simple, godly hearts

and tattered memories. 

The things they built

become decrepit edifices,

abandoned now

by children’s children

and the children after them.

Beside decaying paths

the old ones slowly fall away. 

Soon there is no memory,

no recollection they were here. 

The world goes speeding by,

for life goes ever on

until one day it doesn’t. 

It is not their loss we face,

but the certainty of ours. 

1 Comment

  1. It is not their loss we face, but the certainty of ours. Beautiful and rich. Thank you for sharing this

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