Whispers of Time

In the quiet corridors of age,

Where shadows dance on parchment page,

A tale unfolds of fleeting years,

In echoes soft, a symphony of tears.

Beneath the moon, with silver sheen,

Old memories linger, a wistful dream,

A carousel of seasons, spinning slow,

As wrinkles etch the tales we know.

Golden threads in silver hair,

Each strand a story, a burden to bear,

Lines on faces, etched by sun,

A life well-lived, yet not yet done.

The clock, a whisperer in the night,

Ticks and tocks, a rhythmic plight,

A metronome of life's grand stage,

Marking each act, each turning page.

Youth's wild blooms, now petals fall,

A symphony of life, a siren's call,

Yet beauty lingers in every line,

A grace that aging seeks to define.

In the cradle of time, we gently sway,

Through twilight years and into day,

A dance with shadows, a twilight waltz,

As echoes of laughter fill the vaults.

The mirror reflects the journey's toll,

Yet, within the eyes, a youthful soul,

For age is not just counted years,

But wisdom gained, dispelling fears.

The canvas of life, painted and worn,

A masterpiece weathered, tattered, and torn,

Brushstrokes of joy and hues of sorrow,

A mural of today, an ageless tomorrow.

Beneath the silvered moon's soft gleam,

Old hearts beat with a timeless dream,

Of love that deepens, like aged wine,

A vintage richness, divine.

In the tapestry of life, threads entwine,

Aging gracefully, like aged wine,

For every line and every scar,

Tell the story of who we are.

So let the whispers of time be heard,

In the hush of wings, like a fleeting bird,

For in the twilight, we find our rhyme,

And embrace the beauty in the art of time.