A poem of the soul.

A soul must be elastic to withstand the incessant pressure
of life’s king tide, the push and pull
as moons minions make the struggle corporeal.

Wind teases the water’s edge in rippling circlets where my feet
cool in the quiet stream, it is no wonder we equate
rivers with our dreams,

Soul or limb all our very being is under duress yet we express
ourselves in poetry or verse, we are eloquent
in our anguish.

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