You said you felt so nice that you could show your soul to me.
And so, I cut open your skull and looked into your head. My honest, honest love, your soul is pure, but I don't need to see it. I don't believe in spirits, but science is a virtue.
Where to go from here?
What a stupendous valley is before me. So many scales and gashes, all that pretty grey. Wheels and cogs and instruments are all in motion, the great monument moves like a living being, what a vile beauty it is. It sounds like an old factory, from a different era - so very you - all revolution and good old cities.
What a relic! No that's too cruel. A romantic you definitely are, yet level-headed, enlightened, steady, cool and calm. Always facing the front.
And so I give up for now, and the excursion ends. Too short? I saw it all the centre that controls your being, integral to this abstract "soul" you value over life.
I'm fascinated still, but somewhat disappointed. Your mind is beauty in its finest, so bright and clever and endearing. But I expected something, perhaps darker, more sinister or uglier. Like the shadows that often haunt your lovely face.
But alas, I should have known you are not evil.
It is of course my luck, but maybe... I could rip your heart out next and in its troubled beating see your life.
YOU ARE READING
To you, I sing across the moon
PoetryOne day I sat down and spun a story to the stars above. Hoping they can keep a secret. But the moon, that traitor, turned around and told you everything I said. About you. And about this world. All my little idle thoughts grew roots and flesh. No...
