Sans Anima

Souls are not as sand, nor are they marked from what they were, beneath their worth on aisle eleven. Souls are not as easily found as pennies, nor, they neon'd, glitter'd, preened and perfect whores. Tell me you have found a soul, and I will gaze at you askance and say no more, for I have searched and searched my life away to find none here, but one remain of many...one collective all, hungry for the same...now gnawing at his own lie, soon to dissipate, a member at a time...until the chairs are empty of the hollow board, as all that joined the party...their souls worth, sucked the marrow, till, tis gone and they...no more.

I could be wrong. I could be wrong. There was a world once, with many. Now there are but faces...knowing; knowing faces...having not a clue, beseeching one more round or two, before they go. I hope...I'm wrong. These echo'd halls of sorrow's seed, be dust...an ill companion. My search goes on, and if a soul be found, what shall I do? Be not lonely...if it's true. Be not...lonely.

There are infinitely replicated sorrows, all around and ways to have them...if you will, and alikenesses of quality and purity...of crisp edges, refinements of civilization and cost...at all cost, you must have...if you must, but not I. I have placed the value deep inside and you have not the price, nor ever shall...for all it is, is of another place where truth be told and love be gold and everything is shared freely...no traps there...no lies...no simulacrum's of reality, no souls supposed, but souls indeed...a living world of glory, not of tepid ghosts. I go there through my deafness and infirmity, uncertainly...yet finally, I go.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Art: Nejron Photoshutterstock.com, man-science