Tuesday, 16 December 2014


Ashputel there is no need to sit among the cinders.
Grey dust comes when magic goes,
stealing joy away from the sacred place of laughter.
Silently it gathers in the extremities,
burrowing in, piling up on forgotten shelves
Beginning early, smouldering your days.

He came to lift you away,
lacing your fingers into his
together for the winding.
You open the door to his words.
Oh beautiful wordsmith!
Was it but the imprint of an illusion
Which breezed through your mind
Scattering the dust, allowing you choices?

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

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