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What Is Your Soul's Color?

A Poem written May 2021

By Anna CunninghamPublished 3 years ago 2 min read
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What is your soul’s color?

No shining, elusive Aura, outside…

What are you within?

Do you try to hide -

The ruby of pomegranate, of a

Thousand bursting seeds

Like the spilt red blood

Of sunset Nile through her yellow reeds

Like the warm rich silt below-

That inviting sandy bottom

that fish burrow to dream -

It is brown,

like a doe’s bounding back through forest shades of green.

Or are you like those two gleaming eyes …

a panther yet unseen?

Everyone a teeming multitude of colors

Shining inside, shifting outward

And more!

Are you a teal harbor’d boat?

The white-lined wood of a door?

A parrot’s laugh,

A dog’s smile,

the crow’s cowl…

a dark bull snake

winding through the moor?

What is your soul’s color-

Today? Tomorrow? Before?

Does it change, depending on what you have seen?

Or is it a constant tone underneath

The best kept, carefully cultured thing?

For me, Seasons come and go

They play across my face

Like all expressions that we know.

Of soft tones and harsh

Depending on my mood

They swirl and shift like

Clouds abroad a globe,

Or squeezed onto a plate like paints from their tubes

Left to run

And merge into streaks

Of colors mixed as they

Eddy around the drain.

What does not run

Is the core color of my soul

Guess it-

The pale pastel palette

Of a butterfly tornado

A hazy churning column

Of lazy light yellow

The soft frenetic pattern

Of a single one’s blitting

Through a meadow

Or a horse standing there-

The gentlest Palomino.

The sound it makes is my soul’s color too

The low nicker of a greeting, and the answered air of blue.

When I see the color of my soul

It is through this lens

Despite what has come and gone,

Despite all that happens…

Within me there is this soft light field

The little lazy butterflies

The horse’s dainty shake of head.

That is my soul’s color.

Can you think of yours?

Does it flow

Is it still?

Does it shade

Or light?

Or sing?

Or trill?

What sound are you and of what are you made?

I think on all of all the people, and of all that the people ever said

I think of all of all the wars

Fought, or lost, or “won”

I think of all poems written

And of how they have failed to grasp, and of how they have always begun

On each elusive core feeling

Of what we are inside

What is your soul’s color?

It is not something to hide.

art
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About the Creator

Anna Cunningham

Longtime poet residing in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains

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