Slow, soft, peeled surrendering,
lifts dried and crusted face,
the mother’s bright blue shawl,
across the boards does drape.
That curl of edge has risen,
that flake of crippled age,
revealing perfumed timbers;
advancing on time’s stage.
How silently the years do sing,
how cautiously they pull,
upon the base and riven boards;
displaying hidden truths.
The split in image is decreed,
in ancient, layered strokes,
which smile in sudden bursting;
persona cannot hold.
How gentle is this dying,
in suppurative sighs,
with certain, deep releasing;
in shreds of helpless lies.
There is no raging battle,
no angered grief or tears,
but only mere acceptance;
resigned when death appears.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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