She tells me my soul is pure,
the sunlight shining through the leaves
only to create shadows
of unbidden ill emotions
that linger deep within my heart.
Even though it is not,
she tells me my soul is pure.
A faint whisper of melancholy
despite my best efforts of contentment
that were undoubtedly present.
Unwillingly the memory springs forth,
like a rabbit away from its predator;
she tells me my soul is pure.
Her voice echos in my mind,
like a water droplet in a hollow cave.
Even when my eyelids begin to droop,
my breath beginning to become shallow
as I fall into a deep slumber,
she tells me my soul is pure
as the memory of life before haunts my vision.
Her voice sounds like the songs of birds,
the rain nurturing the earth,
the warmth of the sun's rays,
Thick and sweet like honeyed vapour as
she tells me my soul is pure.
