Thursday, June 26, 2014


Shattered, sharp, discordant glint deciding,
holding pattern cruel, the truth deriding,
so is broken on the floor of bitter time,
that which once I held and did call mine.

Edges lethal, splintered, awful suffering,
displayed in chaos, grief in purest uttering,
in that jigsaw which is mind and self,
mocking all that was - fragmented hell.

Tears fell on the glittered, brutal shapes,
washing dreams reflected, out of place,
searing in that acid drip of mournings,
nothing left but deadly pieces - teasing.


  1. Sharp transitions, Roslyn, a fierce documenting of a time where personal rubber-meets-the-road so hard we can't even thinking about 'will the tire survive?' - were all brought into sharp un-relief with this one.

    Writing through it, about it, around it - is, in my estimation what brings the sacred of the experience to the forefront. The effort seems to yield some kind of word-light revealing what's shiny on the blood of the wound. Through this one begins to see what can be soaked up, what can be stitched, and what is ripe for healing if treated with tender compassion and gentle attention.

  2. I liked the tightness of these stanzas - they are just packed with emotion.

  3. I love this:
    "in that jigsaw which is mind and self,
    mocking all that was - fragmented hell"

  4. Once shattered no even all the kings men could mend.

  5. An articulation of brokenness in rhymed couplets. Nothing evokes the need to write more than have our wholeness cut, our security threatened, our loves severed. These keep us awake and hurting, this feels like the emotional blood-let you have written here. It's good to read this.

  6. This is really broken! The first stanza is very well crafted. Its third verse is my favourite.