Time can take the hand of pain
and clasp with soothing grip,
to lead beyond the place of hurt;
release the desolate.
With furrowed brow the hours pass,
in creased companionship,
as minutes tick and seconds fall
and healing is bequeathed.
In moulded moments all is made,
and formed for future’s touch,
where past is left in shadowed land;
forgiveness is sucussed.
The salve is patient waiting,
the dressing bound as trust,
as weeping wounds are bandaged,
in flimsy gauze of hope.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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