Poem: The Alchemy of the Soul

In silence deep, where stillness grows,
Beyond the reach of what one knows,
There stirs a fire, soft and old—
The alchemist of spirit’s gold.

Not lead nor stone, nor molten ore,
But pain and joy and something more:
The secret tears, the quiet grace
That time cannot quite erase.

It starts with shadow, dense and grim,
A crucible of self grown dim.
The ego burns, the falsehood dies—
Ashes drift beneath the skies.

Then comes the work, both slow and bright,
A marriage made of dark and light.
The heart is turned, the mind is stirred,
By silent truths too deep for word.

Old wounds transmute to sacred wine,
Through patience, prayer, and hidden sign.
The dross of fear is drawn away—
What’s left is soul in raw array.

No flash of gold, no outward prize,
Just clearer heart and wiser eyes.
The self reborn, though still the same—
The spirit calls and signs its name.

For soul’s true gold, the sages say,
Is found when we are burned away.
And what remains when fire is through—
Is love, is light, is simply you.

Thank-you for reading.

Much love and Light,

Brenda Marie Fluharty