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If I should Exchange My Soul
If I should exchange my soul, would you be with me before I grow old? If I should exchange my soul would you accompany me to Mount Fuji to see the ecstatic talked about scenery?
If I should exchange my soul would you fly with me around the world? If I should exchange my soul would you help me to complete the next chapter of the book and watch over me while I cook?
Everywhere I go, I see you in my world, everywhere I go I can feel you in my soul, a radiant light is shining in me and the universe is embracing me and the moon and the sun with a mission on the run will determine my destiny.
The night skies are gleaming with clouds of assorted colors and a miracle sitting on the hill waving toward the heavens and the old man in the clouds appears.
It is not the color in the plate or the last tumultuous date, it is the pyramid that spills those colors that radiate from the four corners of the sky and the earth in compliance with mankind breath held its gravity along the stretch and the beaver on the ground reached out and touch my soul.
If you should exchange your soul, would you exchange it for pure gold? If you should exchange your soul, would you set a price on it or would you jump from the cliff.
The carving on the wood, the painting on the wall and the ladder beside the gate explain it all, the fountain of hope has picked up steam and the heavens has revealed my benevolent dreams and across the street the silent bridges stood still with water trickling from the stream and the garden of hope slowly sinks in the dirt and I hear the birds playing the evening symphony and the earth shakes.
The moment passes swiftly and my imagination took me across the world and the heaven sucks the energy from below.
I see them staring at the skies making a pledge before they die, thousands of them bound in chain with guns pointed in their backs and universe walking on top and bright lights kept flickering from above and guns shots bellowing in the distance.
If I should exchange my soul, would you be with me before I grow old? The story is not yet told; let me a cup of tea to warm my soul; my hands and feet are getting cold.
Copyright ©
Christine Phillips
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