Are souls like clouds
kicked up from the burnt prairie
of our cellular constructs
by the measured beating of our hearts?

Dragging this multi-fanged scalpel
Charting distance in lines
Wasting these candles away
Plotting a plan
Until
The angels staged against me
With scowls
And shaking fists up above
Fall impotent
When I say my job is done
And none of this
Is my problem anymore
Not anymore

I am a heart, beating this earth to pieces.

But the cloud is heavy on me
And I can't tell
If I soak my hat on my brow
Because of or in spite of...

I am raking these fields to death, and if anything grows, will it be because of, or in spite of...


Me?


Will hearts always toil beneath the souls they create?

05/31/2013

Posted on 05/31/2013
Copyright © 2024 Bertram Sparagmos