SOUL

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The soul
Strayed through wildlands,
Making pliable trades
For the whiff it had forever been denied,
Without remorse,
Without anarchy.
The unkemptness of blasphemy
Showed little in its smirk of choice,
A day for the nerves presumed dead,

Preferred dead.

For all the restraints of the world,
The soul was then free;
From the fallacies of neutrality,
As much as the valor of the vile.
For where it lay,
Hardly touched by the feathers
Of the realm,
And cradled by the certainty
Of what had never been,
It would lie.