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I sprung at the pinnacle
Unwriting my chronicle
With love non-reciprocal
I shall start anew
I laid bare in muddle hub
With beasts of animal club
I'm stuck at the stub
And solitude brew
And so I continue to clear my notebooks of stuff that seems more-or-less cohesive enough to share here.
Emma-Leigh Ivy Aug 2015
We house a soul
from time to time,
but often find our corridors
left empty.

No house can stay full forever,
lest those filled with zany dreamers
who seek thrill beyond their own
four walls.

Souls do travel
from time to time,
like old visitors who leave tips
on the breakfast table
of their favorite inn,
shortly before seeing themselves off.

Souls may stand
on our back porch while they torch
a cigarette
and quietly ponder on minute,
existential mysteries.

Souls may seek comfort
sprawled at our fireplace
or perched atop a kitchen bar stool,
seeking to feel the comforting
complacency of domesticity.

A soul may find
that cozy comforts are ever elusive,
exceptional to an existence in which
the most stupendous feel bewildered
and insignificant.

Alas, such is the nature of a soul:
from time to time,
a soul might not recognize
its own might.

A soul will fight to find a home
and seek comfort from its peers,
but a soul does not often hear
the invitation to call a place one's own. . .

Home.

We are not souls, we house them
and from time to time,
if we are lucky,
our houses open their doors for more
than just one stray soul
to invite himself in.

If your home can house many
it houses the greatest of things,
above all else:
Love.
Love is the soul.
AM Mar 2015
Sunsets are so much more grand once you've known sadness,
reminding you of the halcyon days from every slash of red through every majestic cloud,
melancholy swallows your veins in such a zany manner that you almost saw it coming.
The light bends regally through the gaps of clouds to put a warmth to you,
even if you're sitting alone in the shotgun seat of his truck, waiting for the tank to fill,
even if you're hoping no one in the lot watches as you bury your sobbing eyes into your aching hands,
even if you feel as though you're growing smaller,
and your soul's sinking deeper,
even if you're tired,
even if you cannot bear to utter the sound of the radio,
even if your mind is slipping,
but you still love him,
and you can't tell if you're losing him or yourself,
and it's like you built your mountain on a pivot,
even then
the light will still warm you.

— The End —