Sometimes i stain her fingers black,
leaving smudges on clean paper as she drifts from dream to dream.

i (Soul)  am resistant
to false perfume and adult schemes.

It is a wonder that i ever showed this sticky face to a monster-eyed crowd,
Though hidden inside the hem of this woman with thin arms and layers of shroud.

Popsicle cherry glazes my ear to ear grin,  
i (Soul)  and my purpose nearly lost in her gin.

i (Soul)  a small hero still wet in the head,
working for magic while she steals the bread.


S.L. Weisend ~ 2014

To be born, is to emerge as a soul within a verse  

existing through eyes, ears, nose, and feelers.      
Persistent as the bindweed thriving in a blind spot
and the rat-fleas riding around in the cellar.
            
All life contains this soul, it’s in; the drumming and the drift,
the way one shifts to their feet when battling the throes,
and the persistence of plague, which
encodes each cell with a rhythm and a role.  
                                        
To drown in a river is to **** that portion of the river’s soul,
as there is no way; no lungs, no mouth
to resuscitate waters that can no longer flow.
The soul needs a body to show; the body needs a soul to breathe out

to be re-born, is to re-exist in recurse of a soul already given,
that is, unless, the soul has already been driven out.      

S.L. Weisend-  2014