Existant NervousO
Let us redefine the soul as water
trapped in mineral,
for now we have something
to talk about
that even light can understand,
pure refraction, the intent
of our greatest
potential.
The wit of our folly lies
in tiger eye sand.
Therein lies the needle,
replete with pawns and pharos,
pinpointing an unseen star
beyond Sirius B.
Unproven, we are nervous.
Unproven, incomplete,
and shakable.
We are geyser pups frightened
of our tails,
too nervous to bark at strangers,
too timid for
enhydro baptisms.
The priests have forgotten their vows.
They lead us not into contemplation,
but into
their five O’clock shadows
of Pulchritudinous Inquisition.
Bark, O ye choir boys!
Bark, O ye dancing girls!
The sunken shrine is man’s tuning fork,
woman’s faithful muse.
And I assure you,
the ocean within is lit
by cobra lightning.
By Craig Boehman, from Wolf Gin Sonnets, 2009
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