The soul resides mid-breast;
I know it.
It speaks from there
in a pained voice,
dull and in defiance of reason;
devoid of cause,
it seeks a purpose for the day,
for its place there,
and finds nothing
but a cavity—
meat, destined to decay,
and feels the press of time
upon the bloody lungs of its vessel.
Before us stand the mockings of a god:
Sound shapes and divine invocations,
the sun itself a yellow yawn,
the chaff of a hidden harvest,
a field of golden connotation
denoting bread for the soul.
And grounded pigeons,
too fat to flee or fly
peck sweet sustenance
from saturated air,
awestruck,
wise enough to wonder.
Fools of fate,
fortunate friends of a god.