The Passing

Our days steal past us like an angry transient wind

Consuming the spirit built so fragile from within.

For times passage assails both weak and whole,

Snatching away, in silent forays...tiny bits of the soul.

Whispering and taunting those foremost,

who have grown weary of heart.

As the fleeting day with its knowing laughter

so eagerly departs.

For the days have seen the vanity of man

as he proclaimed himself his own master

casting aside, Gods perfect plan.

Thus lending hereunto mans desperate cry

as he in agony begins to realize.

That he is but a whisper in an ever darkening night,

and that soon, all things must pass,

amidst many a mournful sighs.

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J. Allen Wilson © 2005