Sonnet of Time

Time is short.
A tick and a tock go by.
Everyday is like a sport.
Oh my, time seems to fly.
With every minute, comes an hour.
From dawn to night.
Some days it can be sour,
but other times it can be a delight.
You can not taste, smell, or touch time.
It is never ending, like a circle.
You can not trade it for a dime.
And it isn't a color, not even purple.
Their is wonder in time,
some days I wish it could be mine.





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Jumper008 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
May 26, 2012 at 10:24 pm

I like this poem. The lines, "With every minute, comes an/ hour" really stood out. The last line was very memorable too! I guess the only problem I see, is that "there" is spelled "their" in the second to last line. 

Keep up the good work!

 
sumer44 replied...
May 26, 2012 at 10:33 pm
That is very true. Sorry I spelled that wrong. And thanks. That was one of my first poems
 
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