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.
This entry was posted on June 23, 2018 by igorgoldkind. It was filed under art, death, Emptyness, Existentialism, Faith, literature, Meaning of Existence, Mindfulness, new poetry, Religion, spoken word, story-telling and was tagged with art, Belief, Better Self, Faith, Life, literature, philosophy, poetry, Religion, Self, Soul, Truth.
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igorgoldkind
Great poem!
June 23, 2018 at 09:02
TY. I actually care about the people who read what I write.
I feel a spiritual calling to do what little I can to alleviate other people’s suffering in mental anguish
Even for just the time it takes to read them a poem.
July 1, 2018 at 21:27