Misery

With misery confected,
that state of deep distress,
no hope is resurrected;
the angels won’t confess.

Stale become the moments,
hard the heart within,
dry in shining torments;
life no longer sings.

That privilege of being,
immunity of soul,
the grace of inner seeing;
so does the Self unfold.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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