At times it would seem I am newly empassioned
With the contors of faces,
and the flutter of a pulse,
just beneath the surface of fragile skin.
The mere existance of which has always confounded me
Astounded me into an abstract form of worship.
This fumbling, clumbsy form, is the best that we can do,
and this mind, this mind inside an ivory catacomb...
Seems too fragile somehow.
Like a single power source to light an entire city,
It shocks me into obedience to see them extinguished.
To see eyes,
Complex motorways of nature, and intellect, so bright with Life
And then dull somejow without changing in Death.

I know not the science of Souls.
And the many volumes whose spines I have cracked,
tell me that I am not the only wanderer.
At times it would seem I am only empassioned by the words of ghosts.
That my paper lunds only shutter and gasp to life when met with ink.
And my heart,
the heart whose metaphor I often reject,
and whose existance I sometimes doubt,
Only beats to their beat long since relinquished.
♠ ♠ ♠
I haven't written anything poetic in a while, so this may be unclear, or constricted, but I have to start again somewhere.