Friday, April 24, 2015


Rain dribbled, pain reflected,
glittered, brittle sodden image,
coursing on hard glass, held
in frozen surrendering, pure

liquid, drenching through my
being, drizzling slowly on
the face of consciousness;
reminding in that slow, wet

demonstration, that when the
hour is cold enough, it will
become hard, and frost my
Soul, iced across each day

and needing to be chipped
steadily, slowly, carefully,
so that once again I can see
clearly, until the sun shines.

1 comment:

  1. Broken pieces of heart and soul cannot be mended.