I hold the image cast through countless seeded years

of your familiar self; flesh writ in solid, sensing bone,

as heart then speaks through instrument of mind

and wails like weeping sirens, in ancient, grieving tone.


Ephemeral the vision dances in dark halls of thought,

wraith-like, fading, moving into view and then is gone,

as if to tease at edges  glued in hope to flimsy floors;

so is memory, by the years, ground down and worn.


Holding on to what the days have drawn so deep within,

clinging to the love which rests in wait and never dies,

hoping beyond knowing that what was will live again;

so does the vision weave through time’s eternal ties.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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