There are certain days, when I feel,
Maybe my soul was milked out of a willow tree.
Opalascent sap, maneuvered into a soul kind of thing.
And placed, right where 'twas supposed to be.
But then, it strikes; souls don't have shapes,
form or matter. They cant be seen, or touched.
But if mine could ; it would feel like wet clay,
That clings to the fingers, that knead through it.
With a soft persistence; refusing to let go."
(23/04/2013)
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
There are certain days, when I feel,
Maybe my soul was milked out of a willow tree.
Opalascent sap, maneuvered into a soul kind of thing.
And placed, right where 'twas supposed to be.
But then, it strikes; souls don't have shapes,
form or matter. They cant be seen, or touched.
But if mine could ; it would feel like wet clay,
That clings to the fingers, that knead through it.
With a soft persistence; refusing to let go."
(23/04/2013)
