A Buried Age

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So too our minutes hasten to their end,
From where’st thy natures heraldic roots abhor,
So too would my childrens nature lend,

Oh no, though your love be great it’s essence less,
Than mine, in roving fashions might it share,
Because a heart can’t hold all it’s love atest,
It is mine that proclaims itself true and fair,

With one love has time defined a buried age,
Mine a thought as fine a death which none can choose,
A hand brandished about to signify my rage,
But our skin akin, soft with time we lose.