The Unrealized Soul

This poem is about celebrating the human spirit instead of always celebrating nature. Nature is great, but humans are creatures who love and cry; nature does not. We need to fulfill the soul.

We put our trust in restless things

The faithless tided of empty springs

Hoping forth that they will bring

The trappings of our souls

A hazy discernment pervades our lives

A sunset keeps us hypnotized

Innocence becomes our lives

A keeping of our souls

Nature, a prize, is fine we know

A beautiful bounty of things to grow

Or an emblem of art, of love, of man

We worship the sun, the air, the land

Yet nature is nature, as sure of all things

But in our hearts to purely it rings

Though evoked as a god, hailers as a king

It becomes a blockage of our souls

We forget what lies within at times

What breathes and inside, what feels, what cries

The dirt will stay, a cyclical ride

Yet it takes our focus from what surely dies

Once gone it can fly no more

Each different to the next

A cause for mourn for an eternal rest

Some hope of darling thrush won’t cease to be

The Earth changes ne’er, nay, not so much as we

So that a shame it becomes when ground takes the care

And lost is the thing, so fair, so rare

We miss the thing of what we should be aware

Give deference to the soul

So leave it must, this wondrous sprite

The earthbound falls, so old, so trite

To grow the flowers in the night

The enchanters of our souls

And then they mourn, too late for love

And beet their breasts and lament their luck

Never more will be felt the touch

The kiss of what means so much

The single breath of the heart’s singing

A greater cause for caroling

Would be a christening of the soul

An elegy is heavily Bourne

A tribute fit of those who mourn

A body subject to tearful gaze

A soul enveloped in mournful lays

A final respect of the soul

And finally laid in an earthen tomb

The body will rest

Yet the lost soul resumes

And finally its work are seen for their worth

The art can be seen as superior birth

To a bud, a rock, a bird , a stream

And the soul’s worth is finally seen

A fullfilment of the soul

Forever laid in history

A posthumous fame is better than none, indeed

And now hailed as a saint

The words a creed

A worship of the soul

And so from then its story is told

Although forever checked by an unchecked mold

Whoe’er is left to shake the trees

Is also left to pick up the leaves

Evermore a whimsical destiny

An eternal, unrealized soul