Thursday, January 25, 2018


Could there be ways to live
this life of mine decreed,
without the shining edge
of pain, so finely sheathed,
and then in time released,
to cut through minutes
neat, and chop the days
and sodden nights, through
realms of merciless sleep?
Or is it all so written, in
times before I breathed,
that life would be arranged
with pain, as waiting thief?
Can there be an answer
to such a question met, in
knowing there can never
be, and that the ink stays
wet, allowing all the seep
and blurring on the pages,
where suffering does dress
the naked soul she graces.

1 comment:

  1. I am moved by your beautiful words Roslyn.
    If your words are of you - I send many hugs.
    Anna :o]