Soul

My soul is weary, are the words
which huddle at the edge,
of reason and of caring;
in love's most brutal pledge.
Transformative the season
which brings such raddled birth,
as soul and psyche straddle
the burned and wasted earth.
It is not something chosen,
and nor can it be stopped;
traversed the only option,
until the pain is crossed.
It is the darkness of the day,
the brightness of the night,
which swallows peace of mind;
demands the heart does hide.
And yet the soul is stronger,
when miles of grief are walked,
with heart and mind connected,
and meaning slowly sought.
No-one will ever understand
the depths of grief we feel,
but Soul as our companion,
will comfort, hold and heal.