Days cry through their broken hearts
and sob into sunlit tissues
flaking in their wetness
as a timeless hand takes and takes.
We fill the ground
anointed by the saddest smiles
and watch the days flitter,
no longer to flatter,
as winds grey our hair.
The umbrella, the walking stick,
supporting the moving days as they
and stumble on their bad side,
wrinkling effects on their hands,
around their fading eyes,
soon to see the other days no more.

The End

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