My Soul is Wrinkled

My Soul is Wrinkled

 

My soul is wrinkled,
it is dislodged from the space where
it once felt like a home on the edge of fire.
My soul is shrinking,
it has lost weight. It is buoyant and
leaves its moorings when I am not looking.
My soul is tingling,
it is super-charged and overheating.
The songs that used to feed it now
send it cringing to a neutral corner.
My soul is marooned,
it is waiting for the rescue to arrive
but the sun has blinded, how unkind,
and the waves have erased the laughter of
the pardoned.
My soul is narrowed,
a tiny flow between the cross-stich gullies
fully wanting the summer rain, the kind that
falls on miniature and massive, the kind that
no one predicted.
My soul is swallowed,
it is reversing the recipe that once made it
palpable. Now it is culpable for every heresy
councils have denounced for centuries.

My soul is ageless,
it once was captive but
now is captivated by
a world so fully stained that
every sunset is as viscous as an oil slick,
every breeze plays in a different key than
the day before.
My soul is effervescent,
my soul does not fit within the
bottled expectations of factory-made songs
meant to make you put your hands up,
meant to make you wave them,
meant to make you clap them,
meant to make you stand up.
My soul know what is needs now,
my soul knows it very well.
My soul is wrinkled with time which
is just fine with me. My soul has
enwrapped me with a handmade name and
will speak it to me in a whisper when
reversals attempt to revoke it again.