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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