Can words speak for a soul asleep?
Monsters convey the fears of day?
Nature’s glory proclaims joy without name?
An exhausted soul drags itself to a clearing place and stops.
No further thought compels action or attention.
Can Do No More.
The earth multitasks, spinning and revolving. Birds chatter and sing. Sunshine pours light and warmth from an open sky.
Conversations murmur. Laundry swishes amid suds, and dinner thaws on the counter.
But the soul is silent.
Asleep in dreamless rest.
Purpose laden with meaning lies not in doing. All The Time.
Being alive is poetry unto itself. A story’s breath. The quiet before the violin rises to meet the high note.
No prince to kiss the spirit from death to life.
No heroic clarion call echoing through the hills.
No deceptions worth believing.
For what comes next is not yours to say.
Empty and alone, quiet, and unmoving.
Death has no hold.
Banish fears in not-your-own-glory.
For today, you must rest.
Poetry is not dead, as long as hearts are alive.