Saturday, August 23, 2014



Sleep dried, scabbed, on mind’s dull eyes,
crabbing, crippled, rusted onto old belief,
waiting to be rubbed from ready flesh,
tears dried from deep and hidden dreams.

Gathered at the weeping edge of thought,
holding to the raw, red beach of fear,
so did soul creep close with sodden cloth,
calling to awaken, to be fully, truly real.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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One Response to

  1. Love this Ros. Brief in words, yet unending in its evocations.
    Thank you for sharing your gifts here.

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