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Gold
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A Look At The Past The wind blows her hair,
hands numbed to the bone.
She huddles to keep warm;
she is all alone.
No one to turn to,
no one who cares.
Should she go home?
She shouldn't even dare.
"I'll die here", she thought.
Alone and cold.
What she didn't know was:
her heart was her gold.
I can't say I can relate to
I can't say I can relate to ever feeling so low as to have no shred, no hope of life.. thank goodness. I think that hope can be a strange thing. It seems to appear at the beckon of our soul, and not the beckon of our 'self', and when we understand that, is when we learn how powerless we really are over life itself. Because our essence is that of love...something so wondrously intangible, and forever misunderstood in it's glory, we are only truly "alive" when within its spirit. Our bodies may walk, talk, breathe, and think, but without living in the spirit of love and it's heavenly virtues, we are, in fact, dead.
A sad off balance feeling in this poem.
Hope. A virtue of love. It is there, because love is there. But it sometimes can take long winter's naps.... waiting for "Santa" to come... and Santa is not real in the earthly world, but in only the imagination....although I am sure Santa is made of love... ;-)
......
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "