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.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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