In that small place between loss and hope,

unrequited stands, childlike, furrowed of

brow, grimy hands clasped on tight chest,

fingernails picking at frayed embroidery,

pulling at faded threads, unravelling the

truth of what was, teasing apart the form,

reducing it to tangled, loosened beauty,

making it impossible, to recognise what

had once been contained in the tight

stitches of grace, where joy sang in bright

colours, and contentment was held in sure

threaded peace; lost now, as if it had never

been and could never be worked back

restored; could never in fact, be requited.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s