The Soul I see

I am the tears of the heavens, That pour forth in their Cold cold despair As the sky darkens With grey mist That veiled up the light Which forever cries to the land.

I am the low hanging Dark stratus clouds, A dark, dark presence, Gloomy in color Whilst observing the ants Crawling feebly over the ground that it embraces.

I am the whisps of cirrus dew, High in the heavens, Which swirl erratically, Floating aimlessly, Questioning the Lord above Ruling over the fabric They so cautiously weave And unwind through time.

I am the warm autumn leaves, Spiraling through the streets Of which countless Scents and hollers Blind your senses, Bringing forth a sense Of completeness and hope, of coming home.

I am the whistling winter wind Wailing at the snow, Crying out to the world, Ignorant gusts twirling Dancing angel feathers Blowing cold drops into collars And then twisting away, Refusing to hear their scolds.

I am the water which flows Through the glass, Bursting within the mouth In flavor that shocks The mind into conscious, Whispering of the hot sun Beating down on the ripe grapes Which concocted this juice.

I am a brooding volcano burbling and growling, Simmering beneath the ground At every disturbance experienced, Which stirred its turmoil And swelled its magma But never quite reaching the tip Where it could burst out in rage.

I am the still lake That reflects the mountains, Not a ripple to be seen on The mirror like surface, Yet if one were to dive within Thousands of knotted stems With snapping fish dancing around Would unfold in the darkness.