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Basement Poetry Round Three

Jet-Blue_Sky

Old Man

From the North

whence he comes to slap your face,

not caring who you are.

Causing crimson cheeks with

a stinging force,

you cannot raise a hand.

Just turn your back

and let him by,

his whisper shakes the trees.

Nature not man

can kill this foe,

he rules today.

Time

An instant still before they meet

the forward track of time,

and silent echoes fill the air

with everything in rhyme.

An instant past, no longer seen,

the trail is left behind,

finished though the time at hand,

is not forgotten we will find.

For in this moment time stands still,

in solitary stance,

past moves on and forward back

and meet within ourselves.

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