The
soul is a safe house, fraught with landmines, a sense of jamais vu.
She’s
there a soldier, even a warrior, to maneuver briskly. There’s
fields
for battle, featured in carnage, for pools of crimson visions.
There’s
life—strangling death, the zeal to live. There’s unrestraint,
coupled
with wildness, a wilderness of welted wolves. This is life, shadowed
by
ghosts, ever forbidden this hope. She
pictures in gems, to warn a
thought,
dragging a broken heart. There’s grief for casualties, a grave of
roses,
singing to souls. The earth has
swallowed justice; where parachutes
flash
across mirrors; in which are vessels, to reappear a thought; whereat
are
souls, digging for roots, a sickle to soil.
It’s a netted terrain, even a
soul-cave,
to realize a sense of certainty; where such must perish, to live
immortal,
a chancellor of lives. She fell to
stumble into a pit of spirits;
whereat
were faces—ladders—or staircases; whereto to follow, to greet a soul,
leaping
a cliff; wherewith were omens, as not for sight, a soul running from
home. She reached afar, to grip for brain, to
awaken, screaming. The soul
was
frantic, for nearly touched, to unmask the small light; where hell
flipped,
where heaven danced, where visions washed.
There was more for
justice;
to cleat a cliff, adrift for dangling; where déjà vu was sudden—to
remember
this life. She hassled thoughts, to
till a picture, to see a face.
