the soul desires what it cannot
reach, it puts it to life in the living soul. the soul eats poisoned grapes—it desires
bane—it leaks into the soul. we experience the soul, at given intervals, we
live the greatest of our days. the soul yearns for sugar-apples, licorice,
breadfruit. if to become soul, it would be too powerful, the soul is wilder than
wildness. if protected, we yearn, we desire the totality of ourselves; eating
salmonberries, mushing raspberries, developing amusement parks. the soul paints
what it can’t have—it desires what it can’t reach—it masters anything close it
can’t see; like pottery, the good with the bad, the soul is strummed into
silence. if but a delicate soul, while it yearns, wildfire in loins; the soul
is passionate, direct, advancing in its indirectness. upon a wildrose, a soul sits,
it just watches itself: feeling vibration, musing upon names, receiving and
returning into an orbit. the soul irrigates itself it loves others more than
self it takes pleasure in company. unfasten its scream, divulge its terror,
unmask its trepidation. such in soul to have in life while all that it
cherished remains in veils. the end of the soul, is the beginning of the soul,
the soul is in-between—dangling in atmosphere, rolling through spheres,
winnowing mind-fires.
