We’re the Old Souls, rolling home
and knowing that we truly belong.
It’s the little roles, those we know
to make us complete and whole.
My lines, and yours, tell a story
of love, a tale fearless and pure.
But we’re Old Souls, timeless actors,
stage-crafters, storytellers so old.
Two souls, we travel the roads, routes
and rivers to reach our goals. Running
free and bold, we can never stop or slow,
because tired Souls fade into the unknown.
So burn with me, we immolate to rhapsody,
and rise like a Phoenix, a reborn, beautiful
calamity, ever-crashing rapturous thrashing
from the hatchlings’ shells on the road.
Fated lovers, hearts in the skies above us,
we soar the clouds, fearing no thing. Icarus
should’ve listened to us, because we know
the secrets of soaring thus, and cannot
be burned away like some waxy thing. Besides,
we are the Phoenix, we burn life, release it
in smoke-rings and dragon-steam-streams.
Our life’s drama unfolds in epic wanderings.
© CGT, 2018.
Edit: the risk of writing SoC poems is in the review.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.