Song of the Soul
A snake that washes its hands everyday
It scrubs and scrubs the dirt away
Original sin has laid its claim
For it seems it will never be fair again.
It sheds its skin a little everyday
In order to gain its pristine state
Oh save! Oh save! It seems to cry
For the fingers of fear have spread like a vine.
It only knows one way to go
That’s up and up towards the skies
There is no one to give support
For the journey is to be made alone.
There are no colors for the eyes to see
No fragrance that wafts in the breeze
No human touch, no appetite
No cleansing tears of sweet melody.
THIS I AM and THAT THOU ART
Maxims all point to me
VOID or FULL, so let it be
Pray tell me why, this Game of Endless Dreams?
Nov. 2009 Santa Rosa