Of the Soul

No one knows
the inner sanctum
of the soul;

you look surprised
as if you don't believe.

Almost like weather
how it changes
colors seasonally,

sweet at first,
then black as burnt,
cracked as stone.

Home is where
the light attaches
to our dreams;

the soul much deeper
keeps its secrets
underneath and hidden.

When angels come,
immense and swooping
birds fly down

the soul is plucked
extracted quickly from
its mortal prison.

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