Harsh fire which blisters,
strips and sears,
blow-bubbled tears of pain,
to wrest the wrap, peel back
the layers, to show
from whence I came.

As memory screams, then
melts and drips, slow sighs
itself away, life dribbles
from an older face,
bright-painted yesterday.

And when the last, lost layer
is scorched and scraped,
reveals; the day pays
grave due homage,
the wind sighs words of praise.

The sun bends low with gracious
touch, to rest upon the brow,
and whispers what I know;
that only the sure hand of love,
can lead me on from now.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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