My soul, so old;
remains in a body
not fitting of it’s
grandeur and simplicity.
It is bored of my childish
necessities and I wish
it to someone who appreciates
beauty in a way untarnished
by jaded eyes or berry stained
lips used to kiss off the world
in one breath and try to grab hold
of it’s magnificence in the next,
adjacent
breath.
I would willingly let it travel
the world of my subconscious
to unlock mysteries only time
can tell my unabashed heart.
Or build a bowl made of
magnolias all hot glued together
to rest in when my frivolous
questioning of why hate feels so much
easier to conjure up than
love, tires it out
and leaves us both reeling
at a world not meant
just for
injustice.
