Dead Orbits Poem by Soran M. H

When the soul
abandons the body
of everyday life,
wherever it happens,
creativity dies there,
and the horizon of hope
begins slowly
to lose its shape.
Then the tracks of life
bend toward
the dull machinery
of routine—
like the white snow
of childhood
falling softly
upon the grey ice
of old age;
or like sudden laughter
ringing through the air,
loud and bright,
yet carrying
not the slightest trace
of happiness.