Is There a Doctor For the Soul
there is no cure
for this melodrama
there is blood on my fingers
where i touched your wounds,
you said we all have them
and some are well-hidden
some follow us with hound-dog eyes
inconsolable and lonely for his master,
the spirit of the wind
shakes the dream catcher
halfway to paradise
the parchment of this poem,
an unspoken sin
that catches fire,
our ashes rising,
sing.
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