Marks on my Soul
Tracy Bersley
I wish I could see my soul. I think it would be beautiful-scratched and bruised, dented and torn. There is, I'm sure, a large footprint or two and perhaps a skid mark as well. Some colorful graffiti has etched out the ever-so-important four letter words there on the walls of my soul, and daily deformity is nothing new. It must reek of stale coffee and peachy springs. The texture appears appealingly coarse; I would certainly pet it if given the chance. And oh, to taste my soul; I would nibble at it furiously leaving teeth marks that have companions already awaiting on the surface of my soul. I hear it screaming, although I often mistake the cries for singing. The melody is haunting, charming in fact.
Oh I wish I could see my soul...
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