a soul is disconnected,
from life, reality, song or style. his tone changes. his weather is passé. he
walks as an unrealized specimen. it’s subtle into his air, liquor is tasteless,
he becomes rudiments, rules, or compliance. he wishes to gallop, to attain to
extraordinary, to float, fly, or form his identity. essence is far away. time haunts
or mocks, there’s derision. he reads passages, searching for his spark,
something becomes artless—by loss of soul as failing its high-wire or a soul
facing retirement. we meet in ourselves these steep inclines those immovable
sky spaces; lost in our movement assorted by our emotions where understanding
is imperative; our minds desolate our hereness removed our bodies seeming
displaced. smiles are distant or impassive or alarming by recognition—as part
muted or unedited such raw, feral material. so instinct to unlive so destroyed
unwillingly or re-studied without mastery. a cigar for witnesses a sunken glare,
where we pardon our feelings; but a man dies or is unsung while it only occurs
for a moment. such distaste for nothingness. such as captured by absurdity.
our hands to something partway satisfying. moving our legs. watching our
movement. just a bit too attuned to what transpires. to love but it’s not
enough, or to try harder but life doesn’t move, as souls at some interior crossroad.
too much to sit. too heavy to soar. or too disconnected to pardon our inner
electricity.
as souls into technology, or buildings facing
demolition, at tracks in mentalities. where sadness replaces joy. to look at an
infant with pain. to know what stands before our children. so effaced in us, or
so at needs in us, while satisfaction is grappling walls. a hand reaching as it
slips our capture while derision is so unbearable. so, where is his gods, why
intense suffering, where did existence escape to?
