Poetry of the soul; love.

In a cycle of rebirth,
we come back to this we call earth.

With the struggle of growth,
we loath.

Cold like morning frost,
we slip over memories lost.

The path is hard to bear,
deep down I think we all care.

Young, it seems we can not wait to become,
we're born numb;
of wisdom ripped from birth,
from this thing we call earth.

Old, we learn to hold,
on precious things we see as gold;
of people we grow to love, that's all its worth,
on this thing we call earth.

Within the freedom without the light,
reincarnation just thinking, it might.
brighten up my days like a warm summer night.
Through death it seems there cannot be a fight.
From death we move into the light.

We know life is struggle,
and so we learned to juggle;
this thing that brings us peace above all;
versus the pain that makes us all fall,

The contraband of which we sneak,
the prison guards of life do not even peek,
to seak,
the love we bring from the soul;
to enrich this hell-hole.