Your thoughts applied

so physically; thick and

barely formed, to paint

the essence critically;

dark colours, blurred,

forlorn. And in the drip

of wet, soft fear, the tones

reduced my heart, with

grey and black and solemn

strokes, tearing me apart.

No light allowed, no sun

could reach, no play of hope

bestowed, and sunset drew

the dawn’s bright face;

death’s cock would

mournful crow.

Meet the Bar with impressionism


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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1 Response to Impressions

  1. Grace says:

    Nice new blog Ros! Can you please email me at: ? Thanks!

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