Conversations With the Soul

Alone, in the amethyst of the night, you may find me in intimate conversation with myself. In my own head space. Call it my gut. My soul.

Oftentimes, with pillow beneath my head, it is time for me to reflect, to listen to flooding, streaming thoughts.

Thoughts that fuel the soul.

For there exists within this realm the timid soul. The courageous soul.
The bitter, lovely, lonely writer’s soul. A lost soul. A hopeful soul.

A beautiful soul.

Sometimes I wonder if the soul is a place comfortably cushioned, in tufted velveteen or breathable cotton or maybe cheap polyester, or is it corrugated, like a rigid piece of cardboard?

Flammable, incendiary?

Is it the color of diamonds or maybe softly bleeding sepia or onyx like midnight?

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