Soul tired

My soul was tired, worn,

huddled under weariness

which clothed the days,

and broken minutes of

my mind, where detritus

of hope lay withered, in

a groping of itself, beyond

the place where it could

hold any shape, which

was recognisable. Yawning

in that cavern of forgetting,

soul languished, and in

ancient palms, observed;

slowly counted out the

moments of becoming:
calling all to account.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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