Our Souls and Our Graves

Might I hear the souls of those that have not been shown the freedom of old? Perfect circle, there you stand, deterring all that's come unbound: a ticket to Piccadilly, surely and perfectly a secret message in Morse code like a golden peacock soaring through the sand ocean's mane; one name next to mine in the prim, glittering snow. Come here, my soul, and be strong; be bold, for truth be told, there is more to be bought, and more to be sold, and selling yourself to a lowly spit-fire will bury you early in this land of the mire.