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
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
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
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC