Of The Soul

Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
and the clouds weep…
when embraced,
as does anger
and love –
these human acts
convulsed by change
correlated
by the bounty of truth
or the vision born…
by the old
seen by the tribes of youth –
and in the end
the roses still grow
and so does war
poverty
and man –
but heal the soul
to watch the action…
of the power of one – grow.

Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
as she cast a vote
which tells the truth…
of good and bad –
and of the soul.

False Hope

She lives…
inside his head
like a polite memory
which weeps
into his soul –
buried deep
this greyed out past…
with only
the remnants of ruins
which remain –
a false oasis
is a bleak reality
or perhaps
a parched drink…
of false hope.

 

 

Like A Mother

Mental rips,

like folded paper

creases, wearing on the soul -

a forgiveness sot

or perhaps...

a broken sword

or maybe a mother...

the person who ask..... always

if you’re alright.

 

But then you think...

the conscious

is like a good heart -

but -  a bad liar.

Then tears like ink

have dried

and their shadows
show the stains...
to tell a story
where the heart remains.
 
Then view these smudges

as if they were darkness -

and not the light...

one wishes to see.

Like a mother...

the person who ask..... always
if you’re alright.