The Wondering Soul

The Wondering Soul

On Autumn days, from dawn until dusk,
The children throw stones
So high in the sky,
They never come back.
The evening begins to settle,
Life below and above- as still-water.

The children lay to rest,
To try again tomorrow.
It is now, the moon appears.
Barely a sliver,
Like a worm trapped in a glass jar.

Charcoal chunks & shades of black
Creep down the sky,
Chasing a thinning mauve horizon,
Effacing golden clouds,
The sun’s guiding light,
The mountains, trees, and I,
Watching it all on a dead stump,
a cup of hot coffee,
Tearing pieces off crumbly,
Red velvet, white chocolate chip cookies.

At night, the adults come out to play,
But I stare into the white worm.
It points out the stars.
It is only a harmless thought,
But the mauve ring constricts.

My wondering soul,
Ignited like embers that will never die.
Where is the silver knife to cut myself out of this painting?
I unsheathe the moon from its glowing hilt,
As a scimitar,
And erase the Earth’s blood,
That has settled to the bottom.

How I want to rip pages out of
Beautifully written books,
And let them find their way,
With the help of the wind,
To wandering souls. With words
Reflecting thought,
Throwing them high in the sky,
As if they were children
With stones in hand, once again.

But my coffee is finished,
The cookies as well.

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