Little Soul

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Little Soul

Poem

Surely there is no measly flame at play
In this wide world made of soil and clay.
A strange amalgam of light and dark pervades
All that is motioned, all that is motionless.

The agony of groaning will by night oppressed,
To suffer the shock of a hundred cuts deviant. 
The frail lamp almost lapses to dying close
Only to be revived by an aspiration’s dose.

The dusk is not merely a little sun’s setting
Or night the same sun the earth forgetting.
Subtler currents ebb and rise ever within
Like the moon wields the ocean’s rein.

An Author is there scripting all these
Fall’s joy, inertia’s rest, gift of unease.
By circuitous contrary roads leads us all
To the high haven of His silver lighted hall.

Endure the night, endure the yoke little soul,
By thy dismemberment shall learn of the Whole.
All thy knots untied, thy wings all set free
Thou shalt leap and sail the seas of eternity.