Souce of the Soul
On lonely nights I squint up
At the stars and realize thereís
Nothing left to say.
Itís all been said.
Weíve been screaming
Our words to the universe for ages,
Only to get no response.
But we donít stop-
Our howls only grow louder,
And increasingly redundant.
We yearn for something so desperately,
Encased in this prison of skin.
We constantly re-invent the soul
To explain our universal isolation,
To justify our recurring despair.
.: jessdoor.com :: personal
:: poetry :.