So who is this Soul that you sing of?
This silent witness
Who counts the leaves off of trees
Instead of gathering them?
And raking them into a funerary pile,
Into the giant pile that your better self will set afire and then fall from,
Or jump into.
Up to your eyeballs,
Up to your own personal crown of thorns.
June 23, 2018 | Categories: art, death, Emptyness, Existentialism, Faith, literature, Meaning of Existence, Mindfulness, new poetry, Religion, spoken word, story-telling | Tags: art, Belief, Better Self, Faith, Life, literature, philosophy, poetry, Religion, Self, Soul, Truth | 2 Comments
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igorgoldkind
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