Friday, September 19, 2014


In that small place between loss and hope,
unrequited stands, childlike, furrowed of
brow, grimy hands clasped on tight chest,
fingernails picking at frayed embroidery,
pulling at faded threads, unravelling the
truth of what was, teasing apart the form,
reducing it to tangled, loosened beauty,
making it impossible, to recognise what
had once been contained in the tight
stitches of grace, where joy sang in bright
colours, and contentment was held in sure
threaded peace; lost now, as if it had never
been and could never be worked back,
restored; could never in fact, be requited.

No comments:

Post a Comment