A silent door, a lock of steel, To mend a spirit, bruised and real. No echo now, no hurtful sound, On this new, unscarred, fertile ground. The tether cut, the anchor gone, A solitary, rising dawn. The past retreats, a fading sigh, Beneath a clear and open sky.
poem
No-Contact
1 min read
A silent door, a lock of steel, — To mend a spirit, bruised and real.
More from The Crossing
View all →The echo fades, the final note…
The echo fades, the final note has played, — The symphony concludes, its music hushed.
The tide recedes, leaving the shells…
The tide recedes, leaving the shells behind, — The footprints vanish on the dampened sand.
The inkwell's dry, the quill lies…
The inkwell's dry, the quill lies stiff and cold, — The ink-stained fingers ache with memories past.
Continue the journey