Old souls

Beauty is as beauty does

The soul knows that's the heart

Of the place where poetry goes

In search of sympathy and art.

It falls and withers I suppose

Til someone breathes a kiss

A sandy moment of nibbling bliss

Sometimes also killing us.

Then ofttimes cutting to the quick

Where the red fox lives her myth

Dreaming dreams of happiness

Hopefully found but often missed.

Just as the limpid pool is left forlorn

In the roseate gloom of a wispy dawn

Her lovely words a prickling thorn

Her anxious hopes disgarded pawns.

But then and thus we bear a cross

And vision images we can but mourn

That sometimes leave us at a loss

But teach us how to ease our pain.

While standing high above us tall

Finding us ancient mysteries

Is the oracle who can riddle us

And even make the priest confess.

It's a tough world we inhabit

With extremes of agony and bliss

To which the heart makes us listen

And the aching soul answers, 'I exist'.

Dear poet, or poets, if you find yourselves, this is about you. Otherwise, it is all about me, as I would like to see myself but can never be.