Corpses that hold on to the shed of life
With their steel hooks of breath
Uncomprehending in the face of the soulful.
They do not recognise,
Much less distinguish between
The Old Souls, the Vibrant, the Erudite.
Because they do not have
To call their own,
A soul that fills them,
A soul that fulfills.
The soul they came with to Earth
In the streets
The third time I bare my mind. This is becoming an addiction, the idea that someone out there might be reading my mind.