The Soul’s Lament

A mournful sound is made by the soul in anguish

Not a thing heard, or perceived by the senses, yet present

A wail of lament, a cry of mourning, or perhaps the prevalence of monotony, that stifling quagmire of bleak. prognostication

Where a color lacks its vibrancy, or a hue is hushed, there in the gray we come upon the forsaken form

A life unlived, a soul shorn, or maybe a thing without its fullness realized, a wick snuffed

Such is the haze that drifts over my mind, many questions yet fewer answers, a muse

Why must we remain when we clearly wish to depart?

Why do we feel so ill at home in these vessels?

Why does it create such a sense of futility?

Why is the pursuit of love folly and folly found in fleeting flashes of brilliance ?

Why worship it?

Why is the snapshot of youth precious and the picture of a eulogy so profound?

Are not we alive, more than the summation of our experiences?

Why can we not speak to our own soul and ask; “why are you downcast within me”?

Why are answers as fleeting as dew in the desert?

Why are some days light and life?

All seems joyful,

yet some heavy, pregnant with despair?

What makes a word stand fast or a proverb fleeting?

It is set by His hand in the firmament of creation, by His authority

So too are we, pleased, or driven to despair, joyful, or perishing, we are and are made to stand firm in His word

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