From Jester To King LXXII

This is your soul. The warm bloat. Reaches out from within, wanting and waiting. Wanting and needing, quietly hurting. Being love but needing love. Peeking out as if from inside a letter box. Quietly, behind the mind. Like a hand from your innards. A thing, a real physical thing. Always having this felt sense of yourself, but not quite pinpointing where. Can’t quite grasp it. A force-field extending out through your body. That which was reached out to as small boy. Soothed. Everywhere your soul, your inner light. Everywhere alive from the inside. Screams noiselessly but has to make do. With dregs. The constant thrum, fed by the blood. Dredging; a motor. The one unique unbreakable soul, everyone knows it. Placated, buffeted, and then moved by music.