my soul // a visual poem

a spoken word, that is, a visual poem on life, love and philosophy.

a series of unanswerable questions, i guess.
What am I?
a lump of flesh and muscle
Remnant of a fierce and fallen star?
Did God sting some capillaries and voila?
A creature of the dark? Maybe.
( these days, I am afraid I have not witnessed a single star in my night sky)
What is a soul? And how do you get it?
Is it hiding somewhere upon the moon, this cowardly measly rat, afraid to show its face,
Is it lodged somewhere in this body or is it served like wine in the heavenly restaurant of paradise, poured into a lavish, golden cup for me to drink after I die?
How do I love and why?
Does my soul love?
( somehow I think not. Somehow, I think love is beneath my soul )
Does it talk to god, this soul of mine,
Specimen Of my cruel microscope,
Does it talk to God?
Does it burn like venus, fierce and bright, knowing the touch of god?
Is it something holy and divine,
Something voiceless and of great design?
Made out of pure melted gold, wrapped in a black sheet, sprinkled with bits of light?
Does it come alive in an alcoholic's drunken bliss,
In a poet's delirious reverie?
Upon the last dying exhale of a sun, does it take its first breath?
Is it the wind, powerful and unseen?
Can it thrive, a soul? ( if you ever get it )
Can it thrive in a world where survival demands brutality? Is it truly something not of this world?
Is it not available? Does it die? Does it fade?
Does it hate?
And who am I?
Who am I?
(How terrible, how cursed
Put and instrument of knowledge into a soul, a body, that is a mystery to its own self
To know truly well that you are your own disease)

If darkness is the absence of light then why, upon the rising of the sun, do shadows come into existence?
And isn't it more beautiful when light and darkness unite like parted lovers at twilight, when the many hues of night mix with the hues of day?
(I walk out of this darkness of mine as if out of a holy shrine,
Ringing the bell of my darkness lands,
My eyes are empty portals, spilling rivulets of evil rivers,
and my mouth is wide open shining savage darkness,
A darkness so beautiful and lovely;
vicious and malicious,
Filling me to the core,
Protruding out of my vertebrae like dead hands seeking desperate escape from its graveyard,
Spindly and glorious, my black wings of freedom,

They carry me everywhere)

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