Feast of life does generate,
the way to study time, and
then to laugh and find escape,
to sack the days not born.

The veins of soul lie empty,
the Self no more than ghost,
torn the days of memory;
heart’s engine, broke and lost.

So do the years then gather,
rejoice in all that’s been,
call upon fate’s angels,
to close the gaps between.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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