Passing

A villanelle, sort of dark.

Passing

All time would soon pass,
Like the shy first rays of the dawn.
They need not have to ask,

About the death of the grass.
Their travel-worn feet stood on
All time would soon pass.

The light in which they bask
Grows dim along with their brawn.
They need not have to ask.

And, like the breaking of a fragile glass,
Their treasures would someday be gone.
All time would soon pass.

Old children, with play no more their task
Broke apart the ground they stood upon.
They need not have to ask.

Lives forever immortal cannot last.
They, too, will wisp away and be gone.
All time would soon pass.
They need not have to ask.