I’m a common soul, in an uncommon land, trying to
outdo my image. I’m a found artifact, appraised, and stored away. I’m the one
in the crowd, unseen, standing in front of myriads.
The blackness in me the noncolor in me, so spatial, so
unclaimed, straying as we do.
I was interested in gold. I was a man of silver. Lately,
I’ve been made of bronze. Hoping the
measure will satisfy the debt.
It takes a long time for some—to get things in order,
at the cherry tree squeezing grapefruit; times it could have destroyed us,
those longer roads, repenting with six senses.
In most situations—one possesses as top tier: it isn’t
me.
Invest in something. Give it devotion. Watch it
flourish.
Over apricots and grapes, we might confide in essence,
forced to let go; eyes wide, partaking of the Bread, sipping the Wine—analyzed as
souls in the makings.
I remain a common soul.
Many are exercised at something extraordinary. They
sway into different realities. They balance out as imbalanced souls.
The portrait of the self, as it is, versus, as it’s
wished upon—soul music, several ceilings, both palms grappling skies.
