The only way to get through everyday
without incinerating your soul
is by sending multitude of messenger pigeons
to drop millenial post cards
at fluctuating frequencies at the juncture
of the mail box of your heart;
as a wick to a flaming reminder.

Soul reads the post card sonourous,
sitting on a wooden stool with a gashed crack
running through the middle
beside the dimlit green forlorn bedside lamp.
Heart ardently listens while laying silently
beneath bereft layers of warmth.

It read  *"You can't be the only moon that revolves around the Sun/You can't be important to someone all the time."