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Poetry

Poetry is more
It is the insistence of cold sweat
It is, put simply
the beat of my soul

Shared poetry

Precious

4/5/2016

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Bring possessions
whittled meagre
wedding photo pre-war
black and white
some cardigans, a nylon dress
a stack of 'New Idea's
and hold your handbag close
although there`s only token notes
you won't need money here

He was only five years old, he died you know

And bring your memory 
whittled thin
threadbare like the hallway rug
where all the traffic's been
a doily draped
and laced with holes
They keep the hallways spotless
but there's stains on all the chairs
And how is it that I'm still here, alive

He died, my little one, when he was only five

And bring your families,
grandchildren
It's just like home
they're welcome, anytime
My other son, why he's grown now
Yes, he'll be in to visit soon
Maybe even this afternoon
He's busy though, the job, the kids
the weekend sport, that's how it is

Did I tell you that I had a child that died?



Written by Kathryn Ross 

April 5th, 2016



Copyright Kathryn Ross 2016

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    Kathryn Ross
    Rossi@serenebeliever
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