Free- the soul. It is.

‘Twas on a four, when the little birdie spoke of grand news. It could’ve come from anywhere or anyone, being the opposite to grand, but it hadn’t- a notion that it was indeed, Perfect.

This bearer- closer to her heart than she ever did know- delivered her gift in the most delicate of ways.

Twice before, she’d been given ‘news,’ without question, and unpermissed.

First, a devastating blow, from across the oceans, from a bird with feathers similar to her own.
The second bird, who, with its careless news, ‘merely,’ stole a beat from her heart, her heart which she’d only just mended.

But this time, on the four, it sang to her. No matter how softly or carefully the bird sang, this time she was ready, and together she sang with it. A tune she was ready for, a tune she already knew.

A gift of enormous proportions, infinite and never ending.
Never ending because that which is real, doesn’t end, doesn’t change, and if it does, it isn’t real.

The soul, it sings.

Free-the soul. It is.


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