Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Consider for a moment, a straggler of life; his bag of misfit materials; the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky. This, to the world, is my soul to me. A snowy field of minimalism, tainted only by the brief, yet constant, glimmer on the horizon. In this vision there is truth, and hope, There is truth, and hope, in loss and in lacking. For as stragglers do wander, their dreams provide homes to thoughts, and warmth to sadness, and medicine for wounds. There was not always this brilliant field of white. Before it, laid the maze of forestry, the hovering shadow of fate. Within the trees was confusion, and within confusion was pain. But, with the bright blizzard of chaos, came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance. There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight, and there are those who simply find the fields of snow, laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise. This, to the world, is my soul to me. Wandering acceptance, caught in the mess of falling trees.
0
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
This, to the world, is my soul to me
Consider for a moment, a straggler of life; his bag of misfit materials; the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky. This, to the world, is my soul to me. A snowy field of minimalism, tainted only by the brief, yet constant, glimmer on the horizon. In this vision there is truth, and hope, There is truth, and hope, in loss and in lacking. For as stragglers do wander, their dreams provide homes to thoughts, and warmth to sadness, and medicine for wounds. There was not always this brilliant field of white. Before it, laid the maze of forestry, the hovering shadow of fate. Within the trees was confusion, and within confusion was pain. But, with the bright blizzard of chaos, came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance. There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight, and there are those who simply find the fields of snow, laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise. This, to the world, is my soul to me. Wandering acceptance, caught in the mess of falling trees.
christopher-tolleson
Written by
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem