The walls surround and sets in place the shape of home,
above, below, each side is holding solid hands,
wherein we live and make our place, reside and reconcile;
somewhere to hide where we do not feel so alone.

Bricks and mortar, timbers hewn, and glass will be in place,
illusion of some certainty, endowed with all its form,
and yet the soul cannot be held in dwelling such as this;
the house is just a song in time,  a brief material grace.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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