Numbers

Two more days as haze on Time's horizon
divides my world from total change to come.
Two boys play as Fate Time's separation
prepares, as smiles exchanged shall soon fall dumb.
Eight hundred miles, as crow can be relied on
to fly the distance cutting two from one,
seven hour sandwich slice time to be cried on
as isolating father from each son.
Four years span a double generation,
though no tears run from troubled heart undone.
Fifty years trip towards degeneration
as two hands write wry rhyme upon Time's drum.

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!