This love, with its little grace
Is gifted to each chosen place
Glad to receive, most pass it on
They breath, they breed, and bloom anon.
Just vestiges remain, of should and must
Its litter stewn, now caked in dust.
All is spoiled, with such little care
Despite the bless of mercy there
My passions lichened, as attuned with stone
This form left withered, dissolute - Alone.
But, I continue discursed with all around
Striving for unbroken ground
Mon 14th Apr 2025 08:06
James,
Your poetic lines here are a haunting meditation on love, loss, and the fragility of human connections. The way you describe love as "gifted to each chosen place" conveys both its beauty and its transient nature. The imagery of "vestiges" and "litter" speaks to how easily things can be discarded or forgotten, even when they were once held dear. Your line, "My passions lichened, as attuned with stone," evokes a powerful sense of emotional stagnation and decay, contrasting sharply with the longing to "strive for unbroken ground." There's an undercurrent of persistence in your poem—despite the withering and the loss, there's still a drive to keep moving forward. The tension between love’s fragility and the need to continue is a deeply poignant theme in your writing.
Regards,
Rolph
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James R
Mon 14th Apr 2025 10:34
Thank you Rolph.
I appreciate you taking the time to read, reflect, and comment.
It feels nice to be seen and heard.