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You're a Pompeiian poet. Volcanic ash is raining down. You write one last poem. What is it?
Profile avatar image for Dream
Dream in Poetry & Free Verse

Time

When you first told me that we were on borrowed time,

I laughed, taking you in my arms,

Asking from whom it was borrowed.

Now I know.

I know that time is not something we can keep,

Or hoard,

Or stow away.

Time can only be used, or wasted.

And it doesn't go away:

Even when we're gone, each hour, each minute

Will carry on like the last.

I remember when you first told me you loved me

And I laughed and said I love you more.

You said you'd love me to the moon and back

But not to the sun,

Because that would be too much.

I told you I'd love you to the end,

And this is it.

This is the end, and I still love you

Just as much as I did at the beginning.

I borrowed time and now I'm giving it back,

Perhaps a bit worn,

But still usable by some other soul.

Goodbye.

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