Posted in Poetry

Start Again 

You are mistaken love.

It does not kill, as you say.

It appears to steal the colour

And life from the earth.

Yet, it is the respite.

It is the refresh.

It is the purity of white.

And the wind that cuts

Through the past pain.

It is the renew.

So although he died

That Winter’s Day love;

The loss gave me life.
C.R.G

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Author:

Short stories all written, inspired by what I see and hear and everything in between. All work is written by Cathryn Rose Goddard unless otherwise specified.

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