The Days That Matter
In the past it was,
'What mattered the most.'
Everything was, 'a matter of fact.'
And I didn't, unless;
'It was a matter of comon sense.'
Handled of course
'In a succinct matter discretely.'
Now as the rays of the sun
Race away behind the clouds
As the shadows grow deeper
Across my days
And the west of my life
Glows gold and blue fades to gray
I'm left with this hollow feeling
whispering in my ear
Hissing asking; 'What really matters? '
And as I watch the last grains
Of a handfull of sand
Slide throughy fingers
that old saying echoes in my head
'It won't matter
In a hundred yeard.'
poem by Midnights Voice
Added by Poetry Lover
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