Poetry is the language of the soul,
A whisper where no spoken words control.
It blooms in silence, deeper than the sea,
A mirror of what hides inside of me.
It dances where the mind begins to fade,
In shadows that the daylight can’t invade.
Each line, a thread of thought we can’t unweave,
Each stanza, something hearts must first believe.
It speaks in sorrow, sings in quiet grace,
It carves out joy upon a tear-streaked face.
It knows no law but what the spirit feels,
And names the wounds that time alone won’t heal.
Not made for logic, yet it tells the truth,
In riddles born of pain, or dreams of youth.
It lets the unsaid shape a sacred whole —
Yes, poetry is the language of the soul.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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