the
soul has a chasm the pain is holy the soul rebuilds photography. there are
images of existence, true penalty is true happiness. to rue joys, to love like
hikers, to pass on by.
the
soul is vapor made of flesh the soul is paradox, irony, ink. the soul is remade
of silk, rocks, iron, gold.
while
a soul is a copycat, it’s unique, as it becomes a conglomerate. solitarily
communal, unsuited as fitting in, rules mastered by the unruly.
so
beautiful in uneasiness, so in need like a dying man, or desperate like
trekking with bobcats.
looking
over at nakedness, the intimacy of two souls, to humans like leaves to trees.
coupled with snails, a whit of perfume, a soul finds its way home.
a
muse is a soul, a sexual fire, two souls as soulmates; so distorted, so
confused, good souls mesh easily.
the
soul is in for out of the moment—too observant to feel natural, too unnatural
to feel observant.
the
soul subdues a migraine, an ancient grandson, communicating with sparrows.
