Anatomy of the Soul

My brain, a pink rose

Who whithers with the sunset,

Who blooms at high noon.

Suspended in warmth

In a porcelain bowl,

Its thorny stem descends

My spine and tries

To push it’s wandering, surging

Roots through the soil of my body.

My heart, a raw fist

That strikes, in rhythm,

My hollow chest.

Striving against a bone jail,

Like the red army

Versus the white.

And though he knows who will win,

He perseveres.

And he doesn’t miss a beat.