The Fleeing Soul
The door is closed and locked on the man
Hemmed in by four walls;
On the wicker basket of waste,
Digested books,
Unwanted possessions,
Butts and dead matches;
The forerunning soul speeds in driving rain
Slanting in sheets shining cobblestones,
Rubbing shoulders with others
And avoiding gouging umbrellas:
To a field of grain warmed by an eternal sun,
Watched by no scarecrow with half a heart,
And peopled with interesting facts;
Where consciousness can juggle planets,
Be only one in a circus,
Be clothed in rough bark
Or identify with all life.
The telepathy of a returning soul
Outpaces the speed of thought,
Leaving the man no time to brood
On betrayals of sacred worths,
Lost continuity and flow,
And the fate of founts dried up —
The soul speaks in phrases,
Sings the praises of a place
Where a man can be bathed in the glow
Of good thoughts
And washed clean of past sins;
It speaks of only one bridge to be crossed
To realize his oneness with the sun,
Leaving him with only one desire —
To be gone, to be gone.
