Ahh the soul,
the ubiquitous nonentity
that animates us,
we are sock-puppets,
yapping dream-dipped meat sacks.
So much good work exhausted,
the years spent like pennies,
the knees of my pants penance-worn,
and the candles, luminaria for the soul,
for every eve is All Hallows Eve, so much fire.
What I mean is save me
from meandering over the edge,
give me a chance to triangulate my position
with today’s version of the truth,
to stop admitting something is the matter with me.
But then all I know is inferred from what the visible does.
Nature holds up a mirror,
and things will be as they appear,
but since I can’t remember everything I see
daily life requires a fair sum of make-believe.