Dead

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Dead, that part of being which could truly feel,
numb the heart of knowing, devoid of relevance,
nothing is important in that place of cold emotion;
sympathetic soul surrenders bereft of eloquence.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
scavenging through scattered crumbs of possibility,
picking gently with bony, withered fingers of hope;
desiring to be nourished, healed of vulnerability.

Threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
hostile in dimension and intended brutal cause,
convinced surrender can hold off all future pain;
bent on suffocation  of all senses; no remorse.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
dead, that part of being which could truly feel;
distant is the song of life: yet love can always hear.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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