I open my heart
and close my eyes.
And I am just me.
Just me
in this silent night.
Let me be empty.
Tag: Soul
Energy speaks
truer
than words.
Oh, weary soul.
I barely see you behind those tired eyes.
Let us rest, deeply,
beautifully,
with compassion
for all life has given, harshly.
It is a darling life.
A life to be cherished
with each breath of our aching day.
I sleep, now,
knowing morning matters
only when it greets me.
I sleep, now.
I sleep, now.
Categories
The Home Of Me
Categories
Love Kept Her
And with a smile,
she held life gone by.
And love kept her.
Love kept her,
home.
Home, at last.
But I am the wind.
And my soul is alone
as it blows through the jars
of neat and tidy life.
Oh, the aching.
For, home floats free;
I will never be bound.
Can you not see?
I will never be bound.
And my heart cries,
lonely.
My heart cries.
Lonely.
There is a tear in my soul.
They want me to smile,
all the time, they want me to be fine,
this world.
But I am not
(though I am.)
There is a weeping tear.
A wound unhealed and breaking
ever deeper,
every day.
I will tell you this:
I am fine.
And I am,
six colours of the rainbow, fine.
The seventh colour.
It is a golden tar.
An aching soul,
searching.
An aching child
within the hardened walls
of a happy one.
It is raining, and I am alone.
And there is sorrow in these parts, and knowing that life is terrible and beautiful, all at the same time.
I am alive with all of that.
I am alive with the sorrow and all the quiet of all the world.
I shall drink some coffee.
I shall drink it well, and hold my cup with love.
The quiet has come upon me, and so I have to write.
It’s a strange quiet, a wonderful one, however mixed with a soft melancholy. It’s been with me, on and off, for as long as I can remember, and so it is that I recognise this feeling as my soul.
The little girl me felt it when she looked out at the big world, an ant amongst giants.
The teenage me felt it when she saw the grey sadness of all the adults passing by.
And now I feel it. When I am not thinking life, but feeling it all the way through to the tender aching parts.
Every version of me has used this quiet to write.
So what is the purpose of this particular post, you might ask, and if you were to ask this you’d be right to do so. I am asking this. But the truth is, I know the answer.
The answer is: my soul has nothing to say, still she must speak.
And this is how she does so.
This is how she sways into the world beyond my eyes.
She has never needed a reason for that.
Categories
The Orchard
As I sit quietly, alone,
with the birds as my friends,
I watch the orchard
sway with the breeze
and I ask myself:
Is it the orchard, alone, I see?
Or has the orchard become
the miraculous creation
of the wind?
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