Aged Soul

There was a soul.
It was weathered and dry.
It’s small frame disfigured and awkwardly pieced together.
Crippled and wobbling it made its way through life, burdened with stories it could never tell.

It was young but aged.
It did not dream.
It was a desert, yearning for the water it never got
Slowly adapting into survival.

It was stripped of its innocence and starved of true love.
The kind given by mothers who rock their children to sleep.
The kind that comes from fathers who stay.
The stuff that keeps children young.

It walks among us as we mock it.
With our blindness for its need, we add years to its vanishing youth.
The flicker of hope that remains within is faded away with our every glance empty of empathy.

We were nurtured.
We grew in rhythm with time.
Loved and protected, we flourish.
Our voids were filled and we developed as we should, healthy and strong.

We believe in magic, chasing after hopes with the wings given to us by our builders.
When our world grows dim, there is someone to sustain our flame.

We see our world through the lens of the love we received.
Opportunity and privilege was placed before us like treasure chests, that we saw as options that everyone had.

Instead of seeing the brokeness and building it up, we mark it damaged. 
We judge and tear at an emptiness that desperately needs filling.
We don’t take from the abundance gifted to us and water the desert.
We choose our blindness, wearing our arrogance like a trophy.
Thinking all are like us.
Thinking we know.
As the souls grow dryer.


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