London Poem: Day 295

8 June

And still, nothing.
No sound at grief, or
Gentle hand to move anguish
Away, the unthinkable continues
In slow steps up, and up.
We dream warm dreams, while
The darker images blossom with
Vivid assurance to ensure
That it is real.
We bank on the pain never
Being too severe, but when it is
Where do you turn?

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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