Migration of the season of soul

How can beauty be stored in a single soul?

How comes despair does not let us explore?

What if we do not know how to mourn?

Or lay quietly in a single shade of a long-lost dawn...

What if it hurts to the bone?

That not even our marrow can speak without spoor.

Do we linger or dwell on the infinite ways we are continually born?

Are we hovering over automating our core?

I think I have been intoxicated by these absurd hectic poles,

Of not knowing how to digest the whole world.

Cause when it’s anchored in the core,

It has a beat of its own.

When seasons move beyond the fall

It slowly mingles with the cold,

A transmutation of senses in each pore.

The equinox of the graduation of the soul

It’s just a perfect timing scored,

Where attention is never stolen,

From the grid of the dense storm,

Where the trajectory of reluctancy

Buries in me all that is or might be,

But when I let the fickle and giggle

It gently tenders the breeze of ease.

Cause long I have known that night is an actual dawn,

Where light makes another bow

To the day that shifts away

To the horizons of Holy Pray,

To all the nights of bliss, where the cold gets on display,

To touch like a soft foreplay,

To feel the peace of sway,

Of each moment that comes with no delay, my way.