Standing in that place of non-being,

barely remembered as who I was,

dragging dry fingers across the past,

feeling the paper thinness of time,

striving for balance, that sense of

being commensurate, trying to be

level, to compare now with what

was, and holding the scales of love,

tipping this way and then that, with

weights of memory, different in size,

and shape and form, hoping that

heart and mind will agree, that there

will form, a correspondence which

can emulate, something sane, and

firm, and real, that can consist of

what was and what is now, like

co-ordinates which will show me

the way, draw together the full

parallels so that they are level, and

square with what is needed, if peace

of mind is to be found again, if there

can be uniformity with new identity,

which can hold in measured grace

who I have become; which can

deliver, cradled in smooth, white

palms, the secret which will lead

me on to the treasure which must

exist, although hidden – equipoise.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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