The Tale of the Sitting Soul

The sands scrape my skin as I take a glimpse at the morning star,

My eyes are sore and my skin vents from this inferno of floating flame,

My inner oasis is pulled out of me from every pore of my body, 

Yet, no matter the degree of searing heat,

Or the chill of the desert's night,

I will smile,

I will stay, 

I will sit and bask in the splendor that is this land of shredded glass and stone,

Knowing that no matter the pain and the unfathomable waves of inner torment that cling to me,

The optimism I carry will give me hope,

The hope to embrace the inevitable and believe in my future existence,

Whether it be in a heaven or as a part of a new star or wherever my mind takes me,

It's with this optimism,

The most precious jewel above all trinkets that seduce and make lacking promise in this human empire,

Thinking of this, I smile and fall upon my roasted back for the last time,

The moon arises with the damning wind to end my tale.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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