Dry souls

I

dry souls

dry souls smell like dead dreams sometimes
raisins, yes, shrivelled by time
scratchy when they pass you by
jealous of your wings

dry souls hunt for your living blood
but lack the energy to do any good
they just smell of rotted fruit
curious people things

dry souls sing with fetid mouths
moments, seconds, minutes, hours
they lie constantly of their powers
chanting hateful songs

dry souls lay in wait for weakness
misrepresenting those born to meekness
within a facade they claim eliteness
hiding plagues and seeds gone wrong

dry souls have claws in their commentary
vilifying those lives not sedentary
defining disease as those not ordinary
“normal” is their land

dry souls waste away parasitically
living off the living just to die inevitably
still they clamour with whispering
chorus of the damned

II

“Yes dry souls do all of those things but why do they do those things?”

Fear I think, moves the beauty from a journey
Making it desolate
a dry soul wanders in the desolate plains
of cynicism and hurt and perhaps fear of being hurt again

Hurt I think, disables the soul from proper travel
Making it root
a dry soul unable to move to the waters of life
of forgiveness, of true rest, a perhaps hope of engaging joy

I was a dry soul once, afraid and hurt
Why did I do the things I did then?
Thank God someone brought me water
told me to forgive them and then
the harder work of forgive myself
releasing in the loving, painful pushes
every blood-lined wrinkle

And for my pain and work
my soul is not dead
my soul is not dry
I take every pain and joy with all their weight
and remember my dry days
so that I never – even when living in a desert
live the death that is life as a dry soul