the pain of raw rejection, holds cold

in brittle grip, clenched tightly round

my futures, doomed to never slip, and

in the throttled moulding, new moments


will be born, and called account on hope,

refusal to remind, of what had ever been,

what would not be again, of what heart

still considered, the way of should and


dreams. And so the years were passing,

in moments large and small, arising and

descending, through echoed, hallowed

halls, until the angels gathered, held row


and sang aloud, that grief had reached

conclusion; that peace was now allowed.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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