Image blurred, edges fade, distinction disappears,

as someone known so well and truly shown, 

shape-shifts into form unknown, but never as imagined;

so do the years bring bitter seeds unsown.


Do shamans bend and brood in smoke-filled caverns,

beyond the world material as we believe,

enticing who you were and pulling on your mind;

as change demands the heart to surely grieve?

In realms beyond the literal and what is physical,

is spirit so dissected, drawn apart by shining knives,

that bone and sinew, flesh and blood are laid;

waiting to be stitched in place as you revived?

For now the pieces scatter on the seas of reason,

no chance to sift remains of self and days,

just wait to hear the angels whisper words of comfort;

and hope to hear the siren song of soul remade.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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