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talking to myself

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In the depths


markdohle

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In the depths of all souls,

Hidden often by life's rough paths,

Even forgotten by some,

Or perhaps unfelt by many,

Is a deep reservoir,

Fathomless in its depth,

Unlimited by time or space,

Coolness for a soul afire with rage,

Or numb from pain,

Rest for the weary,

Hope for the downtrodden,

Or for those who simply have given up.

This hidden-ness waits to be called

For it to be able to surface in many lives.

It can be called by many names,

But joy is its gift,

Deeper than happiness,

Unbounded by any tradition,

Unknowable,

Yet truly one with all,

Closer than our skin and bone,

It its intimate embrace.

Sustaining in life’s rough passage,

That we as pilgrims must walk.

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