On a soul

One place, of ethereal standing of the soul, the spirit; which had once been verdant and overflowing with beauty of her hopes, her love. Was now no more then a resting graveyard of loose soul dried and withered.

So comes to mind then the thoughts of ones soul. Ones very being. Surely there must be some limit to love, and some limit to despair. Once someone may have held not these views but now they may have reveled in the canvas which had been washed clean and then painted over with skies.

A soul is ones own land, ones own creation. A canvas with living soul, and rain and sun, golden and stark all in one.

What was built on this soul, what was painted, was ones choice. Every emotion has a color, each expression a different sky, every whispered moment a different setting sun. In just one instance it can all wash away with drops of salt falling from the eyes of the holder. For beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it is their creation that may have once seemed only beautiful to ones self; but which now resembled only all the happiness that escaped though the crevices in cupped hands. A futile attempt to fight change, the conclusion.

But when one losses sight of building a new garden, a new sanctuary; their souls wither and the radiant light extinguishes over time till perhaps there is no one left to reignite it. Reignite the passion for living, for creating.

And this is where the lost and hopeless dwellers come, to a barren bleak world of dreams. Memories only being the companion they not wish to remain. Some sit, some cry, and yet alone some seem to fall farther into this barren world until one day they simply refuse to wake, they refuse to open orbs onto a world that seems to not care. But for every one person lost another is there to catch you as you fall. It may just not be apparent yet.