The days did draw in ruffled coil

around the vision spent,

and huddled close to memory’s hem;

in bloated, bloused lament.

Through dusted scuff of muddled mind,

they brushed on truth’s dry soil,

and shuddered lint and broken thread;

the past so soon defiled.

Belief had dressed the distant times,

as ragged, frayed and worn,

to cast the image full depressed;

a victim surely born.

But thoughts are sent to service mind,

not dictate what must be,

and in the choosing we can know;

birth new realities.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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