by Linda Ann Nickerson

Created on: June 21, 2007

SOUL-WORN

My soul grew old before its prime,
Bespattered, stained, and gored with grime,
From anguished dreams and darkest crime,
My soul, the refugee.

The calendar aged slower still,
My heart entwined with vines until
The weedy tendrils choked my will,
My soul, in lock and key.

Those nearest couldn't comprehend
My soul, descended to its end.
Instead, they tried to recommend,
My soul to oversee.

A silent Voice, as if on cue;
A gentle saber pierced me through,
Unchained my pain and made me new.
My soul, at last, was free.

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