In solid, sure remembering the days were written,

as if to hold in darkest ink, the truth,

and yet within the circling, lying words there lay,

deception such as I had never known.

It made of wandering, lettered life my stories,

and yet, had scattered them as merest dross,

for there was pure intent and deep flawed falling,

as message wandered, helpless, dark and lost.

The thoughts and spoken words were ever cast,

through wooded, wild and woeful forests deep,

dismembered as the psyche’s shattered face,

and left to lie in cold, tormented sleep.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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