Futile Reach
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I have not written poems, lived a life, nor shed a tear,
that half-contained within it’s touch restraint
that I might fear erase my soul;
enmeshed and shaven bare, naked corpse unfurled.
Forlorn and striving; reckoning recklessly
with words and feelings mighty and fleeting
as bridges crushed and rusted, through rushing passages sailed.
Longing for the almost made. A light no other like,
such light unknown, shone through ragged weeping eyes
with heart as heavy stone. Stepping sideways wither cry
or sigh to reach without a sapping strength,
what cannot, will not, be constrained or caught.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
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