Sep 25

My soul

Sometimes I think my soul is a wild horse,
Plunging forward,
Black, corse mane whipping in the wind.

Strong and courageous
Running for miles 
Through choking dust and shimmering heat.

Yet also timid,
Shying from the unexpected
And immobilized by terror.

Sometimes I think my soul is a caged bird
Wings beating cold metal,
Barely contained.

Extraordinary yet fragile,
With hollow bones
and bright brittle feathers.

And sometimes I know my soul is my guide
Leading me forward
In gallop or flight,

While My hair may be braided with feathers
Or my shoes worn with the dusty ground,
My bones are dense,
My lungs small.

I cannot race forever across golden fields
Or soar across currents of blue;
My form is human
And my bonds are too.