Ephemeral Morrow

Upon this lonesome bench, I sitteth still,
'Neath heavens drear, where time doth drift away.
The clock's stark tick doth cease, its hands now chill,
As fleeting sands through eldritch winds dost sway.
Behold, the clocks in flight, as dreams now weep,
And I, in shadows, doth dissolve and fade.
O Time, thou art a cruel and restless deep,
That stealeth youth and leaveth but a shade.
Betwixt the moments, silent, lost I stay,
In voids where yesteryears and morrows part.
For time is but a ghost, in pale array,
That haunteth e'er the chambers of mine heart.
To dust I turn, and dust I shall remain,
Where past and future dance in endless pain.

© poembyselly