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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.