Old Soul

Death touches everything,

and everything is no more.

She has that old soul look to her eyes

like she has lived on this earth before

whose spirit is caged and must arise

seeking sweet freedom forevermore.

Her spirit is one of ancient steel

forged in the fires of day and night

mightier than she can yet reveal

but surely prepared to win the fight.

A river of gold is in her hair,

and she has drowned in its waves before

wandering far from her mother’s care

along the pathway to heaven’s door.

The water’s edge was flowing and free.

The storm clouds were swift as blackened wings

that ruffled and felled that gnarled old tree

whose voice as yet still mournfully sings.

Her eyes reflected the moment’s fright.

The thunder muted her piercing cry;

and the rain was tinged with smoke and light

as the sound of a train filled the sky.

The houses that stood on Bleaker Street

trembled with fear, and the windows fled

down the way that scarred her little feet

as she stood breathing among the dead.

The storm in her eyes arrests my soul

as she stands rooted, looking at me.

Death has touched her with visions untold

whose horror no child should ever see.

Her palm is full of merciless pain.

Her earth-born spirit can never die.

An old soul learns to dance in the rain

while the young ones learn only to cry.

Reviews

[Relic]

I like to look back further, at times, to older writing from those I know are good. This is like finding a treasure you didn't know was there. There's an eerie type of vibe to this knowing the little girl has seen more than her years are meant to. I'm glad I found this.

[David Scott]

I've seen the look in many eyes. It is strange to see it in the eyes of a child.
Funny, I get people telling all the time I have an old soul.

[Philip Muls]

Old soul..spirit made of ancient steel. Very strong imagery that goes perfectly with the key theme of your poem. The picture chosen enhances the words. Complete package is captivating.

[emmajoy]

' An old soul learns to dance in the rain .. while the young ones learn only to cry... '

Those two phrases complete such a heart-warming yet somehow chilling piece of writing for me, at this moment. How deftly you've displayed the meaning of that child, the wretched stillborn personality waiting to play with sunbeams and yet, somehow lives in the shadows.

The tragedy that took the colour from this beautiful might be true.. tis like the moment when time stopped and left the most terrible aftermath. Those eyes stare into distance yet are tearless..
Few poems in here have made me feel so deeply, Marie.. tis extraordinary in both content and skill.

[Dean]

the picture, your write, one timeless creation, and absorbed inside me--forever.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

the poem is beautiful and haunting...and the picture too....the little girl does have that look in her eyes---like she has been there and done that....not really the "eyes of a child"---as the Moody Blues sang.

this is one of my favorite writings from you...

i feel that children born into this world don't get to have that innocence that we did...and they are grown up before they are even born...somehow they know what they are getting into.