My sorrows! Lying, listing, listed, sighing!

And yet somehow, they live, requiring,

denying, surrendering, demanding, confusing

soul and psyche, imprisoning heart, which


holds with hands so bone-cold, the remains

of what had been; crumbling memories.

So does mind make of the impossible, some

thing which can be borne, carried forth on


crushed shoulders, held aloft, until the place

is reached, where the burden can be put down;

the offering of suffering can be laid at the feet

of grief, settled on the altar of deep becoming.


So is the Self carved cautiously by time,

so is Life revealed in poignant form, as mine.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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