Obsolescence- A Poem.

beauty dies here:

it slips from your fingers like

silt

as the sun slips 

beneath the distant horizon

that you can run to but

never truly 

touch.

it wilts like the 

youthful flush in your

cheeks

as those rose colored

days

flicker

in favor of an untimely and

devastatingly

human

death.

everything dies here,

except for the distant rumbling of

gears

and 

tanks

and

guns

and

tears

that stop sounding so distant when you

listen closely.

when i sit here on the rubble, i

can hear the slamming

of the swift river’s

current

against the 

rocks,

eroding everything and

taking it all away from me.

the river always changes,

and the willow always turns a new leaf,

and the sunset is always a pretty new color–

but two things stay the same;

beauty dies here, and

nothing you ever see

or love

  or

g

rasp,

or

h

old,

or

love

will ever

m

at

t

e

r

t

o

m

e

Written by Bri, founder of Sparta Academics.