December 23, 2014

In the Twilight. {Poem}

Samuel John/Flickr

A soul, a spirit,

can not be held captive

or caged.


No other human or creature

may hold or envelope

another being’s soul.


Freedom radiates internally

from what is untouched,

only the Self is the holder,

and even that Self

is just a temporary holder.


A museum of sorts,

for the soul to dwell in,

for mere moments

in the vastness of time.


Time in the spiritual world moves much faster than in the physical world.


It is the physical that we see,

yet the spiritual that we feel.


Within and all around.


Where shadows play with shades

and intertwine with light

across land

while dancing

between and thru the arms of clouds.


Time travel is light,

all is light

spindling at different rotations, speeds and vibrations

of existence.


Some visible.

Some only in shades of grey

or gold

or in vivid red or morning blue,

or in the blushing of cheeks

or the heat of day

all swirling variations of color.


Within time and space,

moving, twining, fluxing

within the stillness.


Some souls have come to procreate other souls,

some souls have come

to evolve the souls that already exist.


The will and purpose of each being is vastly different, diverse,

divergent—in life and living,

holding only one soul,

one miracle.


Yet, maybe the possibilities of many,

within the kaleidoscope of creation.


Always an evolution of cards,

one play after another

as the luck of the draw

or the drawing of luck,

of chance,

a soul is selected.



fleeting like stars

or the shifting of light

in morning wake.



yet never the same.


We breathe.

We move.

We improve.

We impress.

We live to serve what is our purpose.


But, how often do we really ask

in the stillness,

what our purpose is?


Are we being true to that purpose?


Or merely living in the puppetry of everyday motions,

of brushing our teeth and fulfilling duties we designed for ourselves.


In this grand flux,

each evolving spirit

lives this life where their last left off.


The flesh,

only a mirage of fine color weaved as a web of belief and disbelief,

to become what we define as real.


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Author: Jennie Peterson

Apprentice Editor: Brandie Smith / Editor:Renee Picard 

Photo: Samuel John/Flickr

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