The nightness to it all—kilowatts, ribbons made portraitures, ghost eyes, the unspoken.
What, beyond concepts, doth souls have?
One says—science; another says, religion.
Either/or, do they wither?
I suggest we have spirit, and variations of spirit.
Love sways souls. Love is insoluble, a firebrick.
While it churns: To cello a soul’s power.
Cashew oils; violet petals; a tepee.
Misty rose cries; sapphire jeers; magnet gestures.
I dare not indict her; I dare not relive her.
Often, souls get to a point, most don’t play cello.
Such a dictum: To suggest—it becomes painful.
A palm of pathos, a heart full of lava.
Unmute emotion. So lost in piano.
At those signs, most noble of creatures, I missed out of being justified.
So unzipped. So unclaimed. An artifact. A lost object.
And over fajitas we played violin.
