Red chair


As sentinel of crimson pain,
it offers velvet arms,
to time’s destructive callings;
to life’s eternal claims.
Upon a rotted floor of hurt,
within love’s peeling walls,
you wait in mouldy sanctuary;
until I will return.
But shadowed light is falling
and night has called me home;
the door forever open
to dreams and ghostly forms.
The colour of our passion,
has held in shining dyes,
to honour what we shared
in bright, lost, helpless lies.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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