Soulwork

Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,

Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,

It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.

Sin-Eater

Before a vital spark can be buried deep,
It must be cleansed,
A soul given its best chance in the hereafter,
So call forth the sin-eater,
This soul worker will consume each lick of evil,
A feast at a funeral,
An ivory plate placed upon the husk,
Bread and grapes and coins pressed into cheese,
A glass of wine to wash down the sins,
The ritual cleanses the dead with knife and fork,
With each bite the deceased soul feels purer,
A spirit growing lighter,
Sanitised,
Absolved,
Saved.

Road Anew

The road calls,
A journey anew,
Less a siren song,
And more a gravelly clarion,
My trajectory must again be forward,

There is no other way for me,
My soul demands it,
Spiritual acceleration,
I am to be the wheels,
Propelling my hopes into the horizon,

Upon my own steam,
Or atop steel stallion,
To ride beside cormorants and authors,
I’ll lace those boots close,
And throttle up,

The path calls,
The road anew.

Lives of masks

What is a mask but a denial of oneself?
Who can say the eyes peering through are truly yours?
Who can declare the voice eking through is yours?
Masks prevent us being ourselves.
They make us become something far more fantastical.

They can turn us into monsters,
kings,
princesses,
clowns,
machines,
even gods.
But a mask can never show our true selves.
They shield our true selves,
they shield our true emotions,
our true pains.

We take on somebody else’s soul.
A strangers?
Or maybe even a friends?
Masks are a costume for the soul.