My soul rests in the park upon a bench. It dreams on that bench beneath a great oak. It dreams it is still alive, still concealed within the circle of life. My face is at peace, hands in lap, legs crossed at the ankles. My soul wears a single item, a white, and cotton, baby doll dress, which complements my stiff beauty perfectly. Sadly, no one can observe such sights any longer.
The smell of Sunday morning pancakes drifts past my nose, I can’t smell it.

The crisp fall air seems to affect the white cat that sits under my bench. The cat sniffs at its simple and apparent beauty.

I watch the leaves fall, for I can no longer feel their texture under my finger tips.

I sit upon a concrete bench, though I can no longer sigh, I feel no relief as its cool surface touches my untouchable invisibility.

I watch small children run past me laughing and screaming, I envy their ability to be heard. Their ability to express their emotions they still posses.

A young couple appears to my left, their hands are linked, their expressions serene and content. They smile and gaze at each other- in love I suppose- I wouldn’t know, for I have never been loved. I know now I never will be.

I hear the trees restlessly blow in the breeze. My hair does not sweep off my shoulders though; it simply stays put hanging straight from my head to the small of my back.

If I could I would cry.
I cannot smell
I cannot taste
I cannot create
I cannot feel
I cannot say
I cannot breathe
I cannot exist

I want to scream. A soul within my soul is pounding at its glass and ghostly figure of a cage. I want to fall on my knees and beg, but my soul is still, for it shall do nothing but sit. My soul shall sit in bittersweet stillness. Still like the ice surrounding my silent heart. Still like water that is incapable of ripples.

My soul sits.
My soul sits on a bench.
A bench in the park;
A bench under the sacred oak tree;
A bench who the cherishes its elegance…
My soul sits