The Race

Time is the thief that filches my life,

 stealing moments at their birth,

casting them to weakened memory,

wasting body and mind with age.

 

Nights whisper soft now,

 where once they sang with revelry,

filling the darkness with laughter and bravado,

fearing nothing, for youth conquers all.

 

But time sneers in contempt

 at happiness and being,

refusing to linger for heartbeats breadth,

hastening me to a deeper shadow.

 

With sting of death I will curse no more,

 discover truth,

become a tear in someone’s memory,

as they flee the thief in their own race.

 

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Starward's picture

You chose for your first line

You chose for your first line the very strong verb, "filches."  A lesser poet would have have used "steals."  You chose the immediate present tense with a strong verb---bravo!  Brief lines remind us of the brief moments that, in sum, do all the filching of our lives, one moment after another; long, attenuated, sloggish lines would have sounded more casual, less emergent against us.  You chose some great strategy in the deployment of this poem.  I applaud it.


Starward

Wordman's picture

Thank you sir for your kind

Thank you sir for your kind words, I'm glad you found my verbage to your liking.

  I write not to impress, but just to share a point of view.  Your time and visit were both received with my gratitude.