Multifarious imaginings have come to call,
standing in battalion dress as sanity derides,
messages which come from realms unknown;
synchronicities and symbols do abide.

Parading past the costumes, theatre’s dress,
deciding who will stay and who must leave,
logic pounds the pavement of the mind;
as intuition laughs and Soul does grieve.

Marching to the hum of hidden drums,
falling into lines which are not drawn,
calling to the angels in their leagues;
watching reason huddle, lost, forlorn.

Shabby dress of logic, frayed and worn,
tattered from the wars and battles fought,
holding on to banners of defeat;
flags of hope still droop; the Self distraught.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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