By Bryant Burroughs
Each day that comes before
soon becomes a yesterday.
Its skies awaken with hope,
then the sun moves, and stars play,
and the day fades away,
lost in our three-score-and-ten scope,
wherein even two millennia of days blink past.
We survive all our days but our last.
Then we, too, fade away
to await the Youngest Day.
The Youngest Day
will neither age nor wane.
Our false king, Imperial
Time, long our master and bane,
will be unnoticed, immaterial,
as on Christmas Day with family all around,
or holding hands walking in the rain,
or a fresh dawn with birdsong its only sound.
And Time, with death and tears in train,
will be exiled to a shore far away.
And we, awakened and washed clean,
will be undefiled on the Youngest Day.
Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow:
The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022)
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