Seduced by certainty

we wandered, through

days and nights of

hope, denying in the

darkness, that surety

was lost. Twas only

an illusion, a dream

of what might be,

and in the fleeting

flounces, her skirt

was drifting free.

For certainty is

temptress, a whore

of lies and fear,

who mocks in

fallow dreaming,

this world as it

appears. Brocade

her trim, and finely

wrought, to turn

our heads away

from life’s pure,

painful hurting –

long has she held

the day.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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