poetry

souls

the soul is a child
tho we’d squander
its fragile splendor
denying its crying infancy
its insolent adolescence
its soft-eyed wishfulness
the purity of its essence
its singing-wine-glass hymns
the entirety of lives, given
to the poverty of pretense
this powdered-wig masquerade
oh, my darlings–
aren’t we brilliant sophisticates?
and aren’t we clever, and powerful?
tell me again, how beautiful
I am

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Eric

I've come to write.

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