The Self....

it does not take one day
to make it,
neither is it a product of
pure invention
it carries with it the years
like an age
concentric on the inner
tree
it cannot just be ignored
it will always be there
the heart, the mind, the soul,
how can one hate it?
and how can one so love it well?

no one thinks
the perhaps there is none.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!