Uncharted

A speck of dirt, reverberates through the ground,

hooted along the winds, resembles the hound.

An unshed tear,

Alas rolls down the cheek, falls to the floor, evaporates;

Now no one can peek.

Albeit it has been here, all along,

but zest such fallible, thus scarcely heeded.

Filled to the brim, the heart does pound,

the victim of citizenry, wants to unbound.

The soul so ripe, so alive,

no prophets could teach;

Too rich for even preachers to preach.

'Lone that bare mind sustained with depth can only reach.

Yet none has come forth,

so the soul laments open.

Up till death arrives, envelope and assimilate,

the fire once basked within, will subside;

Then lie grave still.

And that speck of dirt?

Will come to a stand still.

In the name of the uncharted soul, a moment of silence.

And then?

It'll go.

Reverberating through the grounds.