by multitude of
words we find a soul’s flaws, his faults, his failures. the soul is shredded,
her mentorship is treasured, most assert more than networking. you give me
business, I give you likewise—you get upset … how to play guitar, how to avoid
the violin, at some stranger’s piano? breathing oxygen, I will never touch you,
a woman pleading innuendoes, a soul with Woolf in her. I wash clothes, the
linen smells like lavender, the clothesline has my business. many will praise
in accordance to being catered to. a cold soul can’t get angry—by a colder
soul. music is blazing, hours seem a blur, time seems fraudulent. I doubt
anything, I give it credit, while many try to match my temperament. America is
my home. I haven’t let go. the soul is my liaison. another was picking. she
plucked a nerve. I responded—to no avail. I get tired, listening to
uncertainty, it hasn’t said a word. another was at me, as we each are
brilliant, where another is following those imprints. it seems lazy, where one labels,
while no one investigates. we just presume truth, honesty, exhaustion of the
case. the soul is content, lonely, gregarious in private. some trickiness, so
alive, a man is a loser to walk away. what we adore, another jilts, with needs
to come back when she shines. the penalty of the soul, the beauty of the eyes,
never quite certain how chastity works. such a small/large brain, so well
reserved, afraid to sit in front of seers.
