Soul of Sorts

Believing in something akin to the soul

Makes many cringe with dismissal

While others challenge the why “of sorts.”

Actually…

It hasn’t made much difference

I remember an afternoon

On the isle of Delos

Ruins like broken emotions of stone

Strewn about like naked lovers

To gaze while indulging in olives and cheese

Some Greek wine of homemade variety

Drifting into the moon lit night of history’s mystery

Getting darker

Reminded one of long before words

A simple stroke of a goat’s coat

Provoking desire for a simple meal of shepherd’s yogurt

Merging into the whiteness of trees

Where eternity eavesdropped on time

 A life meandering into the past

Rousing remembrances of Cyparissus

Not to be followed

These rocks

These pillars of ruin

Where cypress trees

Might be but ancient sentries of protection

Oh

To be one of them

To have been part of the history

Fantasy ruled into the night

Accompanied by stalwart columns of time past

The soul of sorts