have stopped.
And the ons
turned off.
My ins

running out.
Cherry lips smile
nary. Pushed
into a pout. White

is colored black.
My front is facing
back. All my ups
are down. No longer

get around.
And the new
is old.
Like blue cheese

grown mold.
No green light.
All are red.
No blooms.

The grass is
dead. The ground's
shaded dark. Unplugged.
I lost my spark.

The mind, a soul's playmate, a transient guide.
One instant an ally, the next a tempest ride.
Its beauty can entice, so handle it carefully, like a delicate dream.
To prevent it from straying too far from you, tether it gently.
But keep your focus always, for you must return to your soul.

Wandering, disavowing eyes might enhance a face's beauty, but the invisible heart's ceaseless efforts truly portray the soul's mysterious existence.