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What Must It Be?

What always
Always goes forth,
Never back?
On its own
It is nothing,
Yet with life
It is a while.

It could be happy
Or mournful,
Or sour.
It holds everything
In the past,
In the present—
In the now.

Never is it wasted.
It may be dreamed upon,
loved or hated
By many and few,
Overflowing with regrets,
Reservations in the past.
What must it be?
Simply time.

Written in 2007.

3 Responses

Author’s gravatar

Again and again, I am awed by your poetry. Beautiful picture as well as the words. I am going to save it somewhere.
Also, HAPPY TWENTIETH!! Twenty? Woah. You seem ancient, no offense. <3

I am sorry I calculated wrong. It is because there are some people who are my age, and for some reason, I always put you in that mental group. Thats why I kept wondering how could you write so beautifully at 12/13 years of age. 😉

Good luck with your portfolio. xD :love:

Author’s gravatar

Hiiiiiiiiii. 🙂
Did you write that poem yourself?

Author’s gravatar

Time is a tricky thing. I cannot come up with a better word to describe it.

The structure of your poem reminds me of the structure of the poems in Hailstones and Halibut-bones, a collection of poems about colors.

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