Gimme some Soul

Are souls bagged and boxed,

compartmentalizing and sorting

our feelings, our heart-of-hearts,

our essences?

Or is a soul more like an experiment,

pressed and sealed between panes of

glass in everlasting transparency?

Or perhaps a soul more resembles

cling-film, fluttering in every which way,

sticking to nothing but everything.

Can they be ripped and torn, or even

sewn back together?

What about seen, or touched?

Maybe we’re just too busy to see,

or a soul is only in one spot just long enough

to be forgotten.

Maybe, a soul is the knowledge

that we don’t have one,

but we still believe.

Crusader, crusader.

Useless crusader,

What cross do you carry?

Is it yours to bear,

or far too heavy?

Esurient crusader,

whose words do you speak?

Do they come from your tongue,

or are they phrases from a land not your own?

Crusader crusader,

lay down the cross you carry,

quiet the words you speak,

and find your own.

Crusader crusader,

take not the burdens

of your fellows

because every cross

is only as tall as the man who carries it.

Crusader crusader,

lay down the words you speak,

for they are not your weapons,

but your tools.

Heavier than blood

Things heavier than blood

rush to my head,

swirling around and filling it up,

right up to the top

bringing my head down,

shadow inch by shadow inch.

My eyes are the next to go,

each lid stumbling down

falling faster

until their closed,

cutting me off from the world in front of me.

My muscles march and follow suit,

leaving me with shivers

that had nothing to do with the cold.

I’m up against a wall

and things heavier than blood

drop me to the ground.

Mists

Pearly cold mists

draped over trees,

a thickening fog

hanging all over the place.
Creeping and crawling

slowly it goes,

watch it play

it’s little game.

Chilly testaments

of a fading sun
and lingering fogs

cling and glitter

across dappled greens

slowly sinking into a fiery gradient.

Silly sports

What faulty wire

requires I prefer

ink and words to sport and games?

Some silly structure up top,

dictating rhymes and patterns

instead of thinking about the next game,

scoring a goal, or pointing my toes.

What pray tell,

brought this all about?

Out of 46 genes,

which one spoke up and said

libraries were better playgrounds?