OF A SOUL

She who was beauty herself.

In the shades, as in the colours of Joseph's cloak.

As in the elegance of the peacock.

A beauty written like constellations on a pristine night sky.

Her elegance understood like matrixes on a stroud— K.A. Stroud.

Yet still.

Pity itself, mourns her emptiness

For in all her glory

For in all material unsullied attributes

Her intellect is base.

Her soul, mutilated.

Dragged up

Tired down

Beaten up like a caged animal

In a ravine, like a creature, lacking of comeliness.

To what end, I ask you.

Run from it.

Dread it

Clean it

Bathe it

Yet still, without holiness

The soul is dead.