Sold for a soul

The broken soul knows its depression,

As it hides in plain sight.

The bootstrapping, foot stomping, and a squeeze will make it dry.

Until the broken soul is pigeonholed, and drained of its life.

In the fine filament of lime light left, a soul howls for its renewal.

The sound it makes is drowned out, by industrial parks, suburbs, market carts, and society put into cuburds.

The plea still gets squeezed, making a true noise of angst-ow.

This vestige is too nulled, when moods are so ordinary.

the rivers of emotion are dried up, and the moods are like machinery.

Reacting the way they should, the way their expected, but the soul always knows better.

When death dances closer, the soul screams out one last time

“will I ever feel true again”

Maybe next time

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