Solo Soul

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.