Simon Ashcroft@SJAsh_03@mastodon.sdf.org
Soft
Softly, now, my soul,
though you have felt fire and storm
deeper than you knew;
your wound has not relinquished
its pain, but rage will not heal.
Sorrow must be borne
as penitence, silently
decreed, in waiting;
fulfil your promise, and hope
one day, to be welcomed home.
Softly, not to wake
the shuttered night, that cannot
bear more of your words;
silent, then, to let passion
sleep, and dream the stars again.
©
Simon J Ashcroft, 2025
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