Rain dribbled, pain reflected,

glittered, brittle sodden image,

coursing on hard glass, held

in frozen surrendering, pure

liquid, drenching through my

being, drizzling slowly on

the face of consciousness;

reminding in that slow, wet

demonstration, that when the
hour is cold enough, it will

become hard, and frost my

Soul, iced across each day

and needing to be chipped

steadily, slowly, carefully,

so that once again I can see

clearly, until the sun shines.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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