The Shape of My Soul

I took an online quiz a few years ago...
It told me that my soul was ancient,
So I sat down today and dusted off my art pens,
But I could not put down the image I saw.
It eluded my fingertips. 

So, I must attempt to use words, beautiful words.



A massive and gnarled tree,
With curling, tangling roots,
Towering above a younger forest, all for it to see,
The mightest of tempests unable to rock its boots.


It is practically immortal in the raw world,
Taking every blow by it hurled,


Having infinite wisdom, letting its saplings travel,
Over the world and knowing nothing of where they originate.
I am a sapling, from the ancient tree's navel,
Free of blood-red eyes and hate,


Imbedded with centuries of knowledge from its parent,
Ready to become that huge thing and not knowing from where it was sent.



This poem is about: 
Our world


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