untitled #1

when the hand grips its final number

and the rough winds no longer shake

the darling buds of May, 

and the wild geese no longer fly, 

only then will the final strand of my hair

and the depth of my anger and guilt

drift away

like two wishes on a lone dandelion. 

when the moon strays too far

to control the tides under the stars

and the sun grows too hot for life

to endure

only then will I accept that my Earth has been

ripped from my hands

and that I and not truly in control

and I never quite have been. 

(first time posting my mid ahh poetry on here pls be nice I beg) 

(and give me tips! I'm always open for constructive criticism)