The floor

Tiles spread silent, judging in their cold application,
a falling through the room of black and bitter white,
dusted with moon’s bright and shadowed drifting tears,
held within the spreading arms of birthing, darkling night,
reminder of the mute, dead chill of obligated fears;
that moment when the demons dress again as hellish fright.

Feet, bare, frocked in brutal, unforgiving, slippered ice,
as if they knew the way across the deep and blinded past,
which surged from cellared moments, born in groping pain,
those tendrils of impressioned, helpless, heeding, fully cast,
into the now, which trailed such raw and rooted substance;
what was revealed again in grief’s searing, endless draught.

Heart beat, against the drum of sullen, unremitting time,
a calling through the Soul of that which was deceived,
in songs resilient, redolent of  notes so finely crafted to endure,
that nothing but the greatest love could ever bring relief,
and that was woven fast, braided tight against the scalp of hope;
reality, the hard and rigid floor,  her Self, received. 

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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