’ve loved in hours—lost in days, burned through decades like paper wings.

TIME by Stephen L. Harrison

I’ve loved in hours—lost in days, burned through decades like paper wings. The hand that walks me home to death was always mine, yet never clings.

I chased the sun through boyhood fields, kissed the moon in rooms alone. Now clocks just tick—a cruel refrain, a dirge composed in dust and bone.

Let time arrive in ash and gold, robed in silence, stern and bold. I’ll write until my pulse runs dry— and ink becomes my last goodbye.