Images slow haunt through headless days,
where time can only mock and ridicule,
and memories do gather in dark clouds;
how life can show us that we are a fool.

In wanting to believe of what might be,
in holding to the best that others were,
we fall upon the spikes of cruel reality;
experience as savagery, now does hurl. 

To gather from the fields of sudden death,
the corpses of the past and fallen dreams,
we drag our souls from bloodied soils;
so do the angels call us on it seems.

How black the clouds on far horizon sit,
how deep the suck of trampled earth,
as breath is forced determined, does repeat;
so Life does pull from death, to future birth.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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