Soul-Reading...

*For those of you who may have read my Autobiographical substance-abuse entries thus far, this piece is loosely tied into Part 2.*

SOUL READING

Last night, you told me stories,

In a tongue I do not speak.

Tales of miserable wretches,

Full of sorrow, and oh so weak.

The words you used, described a place,

Empty and unwhole.

The destination you spoke of,

You professed, was my soul.

I let you in without realizing,

The havoc you might wreak.

Loosing a thousand canyons,

Made from polluted tendencies.

Life-lines mixed with Love-lines,

Mixed with suicidal bouts.

But what about the Sun-ones,

Tracing maps across my mouth?

Hearken to the sewage, 

Spewing from the cradle’s breadth:

Tantamount to savages,

In orbit, more or less.

The fluids birthing sepsis,

Plumed beside a precious veil,

Derive from jealous spirits,

Left inoperable and frail.

For its jealousy, that makes the bane,

That makes the carbon cut,

My soul into a million shards,

Cloaked in blood & lust.

Cursed am I, to want the bone,

That I can never have,

But given to, Diana’s moon,

And waxing in his hands.

The Longing starts, as brothers two,

But no, nothing more,

Shown to you, in weeping parts,

Wounded on the floor.

What you took, I did not give,

At least not by intent.

Last night, you read my soul to me,

And I, hate you, for it.