Oh…That.

Oh, that?

…that ambiance is my soul;

It is its own element.

It knows where it is

And what it entails in every

Sense of the word.

But onlookers will perceive it as clouded,

Reminiscent of the sparkling mists,

Over and across a warm lake,

In the sunless air,

On a brisk morning.

Definitively, it  is largely misunderstood.

A campfire by the lake,

From the night before

Could smolder,

And the cast off smoke

Might try to mingle,

But it would be no match.

My soul is something

That cannot be grasped. 

You could run

And retrieve a covered glass dish

In the attempt to catch it and

Observe it;

But those efforts would not work

And, anyway,

It would be too late—

The sparkling mist will have Risen Above,

And will have long since dispersed.

And it may be appreciated in retrospect,

But in that event,

All that might be left is

The realization and

The clarity

Of the memory

Of the ambiance of my soul.

It is then when an inkling

Or perhaps

An epiphany regarding its existence

Might be comprehended.

But, i am almost certain,

That memory would prove elusive and fade with the passing of time…