Broken hours

 

 

The minutes made
as broken hours,
mosaic on the plate
of day’s demands,
and night’s deep dreams;
the soul to re-create. 
The shards selected
carefully and chiselled
into shape; glued tight
in beauty’s shattered form,
as destiny displayed.
Each piece washed clean
with shuddered tears,
each fragment holding 
grace; the image 
re-constructed, the pain
released as fate. 
It’s in the dusty breakings,
upon life’s brittle floor,
that we can find serenity;
that art can be revealed.
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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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