Withered


I see a hand that’s withered, 

frail and getting old.

Clinging onto memories, 

some stories left untold.

The table that you sit on, 

an ancestor for sure.

Down into the forest, 

there’ll be many more.

Once you waved from branches, 

now crumbling away.

A topic of the artists mind, 

in his art you’ll stay.

~ Liza

lizalizaskysaregrey©2016

Dying Sun


And so the light is fading, the winters drawing near.

The summer sun is dimming, the days are not as clear.

I’m thankful for my summer, the joy along the way.

And now the winters drawing in, shorter are my days.

With winter comes warm fires, dying embers in the grate.

Like memories that fade away, even now when I’m awake.

But I’m thankful for the days we had, the joy along the way.

If only the summer sun would wait, for just a few more days.