They haunt the hollow halls of night,
tramp hard upon my mind,
and drag my fears like broken wings;
displayed as splintered signs.
Dissected by the glistening claws,
my heart is riven wide,
for monsters hold the truth of me;
teeth turned in sharp deride.
Love lays upon the silent stones,
turns cold in bitter shreds,
and waits for time to raise it all;
to hang on ancient pegs.
In crucifying constancy they call,
echoed horrors through the dream of day,
slipping through the darkened door of dawn,
determined that I will be shown the way.
And in the shadow dream of fallow night,
I glimpse a shining thread beneath the shawl,
of demons cowled and crawling close;
identity has yet to be revealed.
For angels dress in ways we do not know,
shape-shift upon the shivered face of life,
to bring us what we need but would deny;
to frighten us to change through brutal strife.
It’s in this drawing out and stretching slow,
that we become the most that we may be,
and in the hurdled hurting of our grief,
can find the shape of I as well as me.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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