Somewhere In Between

the rising and the setting sun
the setting and the rising sun
precious gifts were lost
a soul lined with feathers
a soul lined with flowers
a soul lined with gentle folds
and here I sit, under an umbrella lined with illusions
situations I cannot begin to comprehend
situations made ever more complex
by souls of other sorts and most of all
by the soul of myself that I once knew
but I know her barely not
for she too has become a stranger
suffering somewhere in between
the madness of those spokes
turning amidst the wheels of man made horrors
still wanting to hide with her under soft blankets
wearing pajamas, tied with satin bows
taking refuge in her warm heart lined with such beliefs
that most others are just as innocent as her sacred self
that was once...
un-raped, un-touched and un-handled by human constraints
and with her I cannot detach from an ever binding bond
regardless of the cruelties inflicted by fear of gods and monsters
and faith that most of mankind is lined under umbrellas still
with feathers, with flowers, with gentle folds
especially those of both friends and strangers

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell