The heart, what powers the soul, is like a child. It's small, naive, and hasn't the strength to keep this old soul alive. It beats though, audaciously, as it has no other purpose. And the soul, what walks in a world so frozen in unwavering beauty knows of the withering minutes in its time. but still it will climb any hill for its tenderness, for its love and its innocence. Although it knows, this is a world that echoes to but a whisper in its vacant cathedral halls, it walks among them to envy the hours of the flowers that share the ground, wishing one would match its truths to add mere seconds of bliss to the minutes which are frayed.
Age. It has its numbers and its years to expire. It has its winters and its springs. But nothing lasts as the heart or the soul, nothing is as evergreen and undying. But omniscient, by only the light of a candle in miles of darkness. It lasts and lives. And if it is seen in one of these glorious days, it shines. The music, which sings to bend above the trees delivers words carried on the tips of the syllables, the expanse in the crescendo, the passion in its verses. It lives. And the heart inspires on, calling for silence ahead at the precipice of life, not existence, in fact, different all the same. It is there. In front of me, all around me, it wraps to cradle me in its welcomed warmth. It will not hurt me. It will not harm me but instead may just devour me. It is that of a flame which never fades. It is hope. The only thing leftover. Too many things seen in too few days.
Hope. It lives. The only thing that really does.
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