General Poetry posted March 3, 2016

This work has reached the exceptional level
minute poem

Without Regret

by mvbrooks

The minute and the second hand
sound like a band
ticking away
counting each day.

The calendar keeps track as well
no one can tell
which day is last
they just go past.

The measure of a man is then
at his life's end
the time he met
without regret.

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