Who stole your lovely soul?
That’s what I truthsome want to know.
I listen leafly to that hollow hole
you claim is you but, as I listened in,
my mounting sense of darkness grew.
Who tiptoed softly stealthly steally
through your pristine rooms and
stripped them nudely bare? And now
a sombre stillness looms with icicles
and half-untarnished cutlery abounds.
Who threw that gauntlet in your face:
that afterthought of jadedness and
drowned-out virtue walking the plank
in ragged clothes (and soon disrobed)
to pay the price for old unneverness?
Who made you dead(lier) in thought
and deed and made you disbelieve
in flesh on flesh & even (yes) in love
itself (at which I knelt in silent
prayer and starkly shivered there)?
Who left your heart out in the rain
(and later snow)? You thought the
act would kill your pain but all it
brought was nakedness, frigidity
incessiveness, indignity. Again.
Who rules your life upon this earth
and made you curse each time the
secret Oneness name intones itself —
you like a lightning rod — unsacred
conduit siphoning all rage, a plague?
Why must I still remember how
you once were when you disavowed
yourself from compromise and
mediocrity and calcified hypocrisy
and lostness and I mouthed 3 words?
© Alan Morrison, 2013