Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,

Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,

It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    wonderful poetry! ❤

  2. I love this poem. Love all the lines si beautifully expressed.
    Yes, tending to the soul is…
    “Incense and peace and shadow work”

  3. shauna says:

    “Needles and blow torch to our wounds…” Quite a description! (Pain is something else sometimes.)
    Hope all is well with you.

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