Strip-lit shadows suckle at the sorrowed edge of light,

trace in stark relief the mark of image surely drawn,

hold to earth with visions of the darkness which will come;

so does the day dream always of the distant night. 

Emptiness unfolds in shapes which sun does deeply cast,

that calling into meaning and to huddled, crisping forms,

where time dips wrinkled toes in breathing brightness lit;

and as the minutes shuffle by, what was, can never last. 


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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