Words wash

Words wash wasteful, wistfully

across the heart’s divide, 

and scour with foaming purpose,

the truth they could provide.

Then can I see slow cleansing,

of what I would confide,

and know that substance is erased;

that what was offered, dies. 

How empty are those vehicles,

of meaning and intent, 

when prejudice rends hollow,

the messages I sent.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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