Reincarnation

We all die
And that’s a must
Eventually we turn to atomic dust
The atoms have been
And always will be
From before we stepped out of
The primeval sea

They cannot die
Or multiply
They just are
And that’s no lie
So when people say
We have not lived before
Just turn the key
And point to the door

As we are all made
From stuff of the past
And scientists pin their claim
To that mast
So reincarnation
It is a fact
And in this life
We have to act

So sceptics you can argue all night
But of the above there is no fight
The soul and the spirit on the other hand
May be discovered if it is planned
Like the higg’s boson particle
Which is hypothetical
You have the right
To think
Soul is theoretical

She’s sometimes a fairy
Or a nymph from the sea
A troll and a Viking
Wise woman for free

A housewife a mother
A cook and a nurse
She earns just some pennies
To put in her purse

She yearns for romance
To be some ones muse
Not wielding a duster
And cleaning a hoose

One day she will find it
She’ll wish on a star
And the folk will all say
She’s “a ******* to far”

The crone sits hunched
in her little cell
has played all her cards
and cast every spell.

She's baron and empty
a dried up husk
and no one can see her
not even at dusk.

She was a wise mans daughter
now just a drudge
and life's passing by her
and that really hurts.

A young girl loves her
and takes her advice
calls her mother and other things,
nice.

Her daughters father
he twists the knife
the crone who sits hunched
he call's her wife.

She call's him DEATH.

The sea speaks of life
and contractions flow as waves
over her surface

Some come lie lambs
and others like lions
bringing with each one

a promise
a promise to cleanse

and

a promise to restore

My Lady she was weaving
below her silver moon
her nimble fingers working
while a soft wind blows a tune

My Lady she is working
and my window was her loom
her lazy threads like spiders webs
and winters sweet perfume

My Lady she has worked
her very silken lace
and walked upon the icy earth
with her nimble step of grace

My Lady she has covered
all sleeping forms of life
and the chill upon her fingers
cuts through the threads of life