The Son of the Place
September 9, 2014 § Leave a comment
Sometimes I feel not the calmness of the soul;
the tranquil place of serenity it rests in
as I fall into my subconscious state of mind,
on a welcoming, comforting bed.
My soul has been feeling trapped for a while now.
Caged, into what seems to be its
foreign presence in my body.
Unsolicited, uninvited, unaccounted for.
My soul speaks Latin
as my limbs speak French,
and my lips utter in English
whilst my emotions rage in German.
My soul is the root left un-watered,
in soil un-nurtured,
with only its stem and leaves blossoming
into my appearance.
My soul questions its place, my eyes, my hair.
It thinks, “Perhaps this is the wrong cover.
Perhaps this is the wrong size.”
As though I were a dress or suit, it saw unfit.
My soul is the Pharaoh, a foreigner in His country;
once leaving his gold-plated castle to meet his ‘people’,
he is left questioning their use of colloquial language,
the un-royal, savage terms, the simple wear.
Sometimes I don’t know how to explain my state of mind.
It’s neither sad nor happy; it’s one of those complex,
scarcely used ‘big’ words that only my soul
finds adequacy in speaking.
Perhaps an ancient Greek word –currently unused,
though present in the dictionary,
as though trapped, as a plant
rooted in soil that hasn’t been watered.