Sometimes my solo soul
(that part of a whole
silently shimmering beneath
the pool of reflection)
demands a turn
asking me to escape
to portals of pretend-
planes of possibility.
Sneaking peaks
(not stealing them)
of sights and sounds
of universes
revolving around
similar streets
similar needs:
groceries, gas, haircuts.
And the smells
and the sticks
and the whispering wind
all speaking,
screaming aloud
“Solo soul,
(part of a whole
silently shimmering beneath
a pool of introspection)
come be reminded
of the dust you are
of the dust you were
of the panting breath expired.”
Sometimes it’s all so clear
of what is here
and who we are
of how to be a seer.