What is this shroud upon the world,
a cloth to drape our limbs;
light-cloaked confusion wrapping round
to hide the truth from view?

This corpse not cold will never rot,
this shroud is ever new,
in flimsy folds that hold and fall,
to keep our eyes from you.

But still we see, blurred vision strains
and through each fine-stitched thread,
a glimpse beyond of something else:
the touch of God’s warm breath.


N.B. While I have a great deal of time for God, I have no time for any religion, having explored many and found them all wanting because they make God so small, so petty, so male, so unkind and so banal. So, when I talk about God, I am not talking about God in any religious sense.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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