The Spirit
He postulates
about angles in a swan formation
And spectral effigies that seep
through imaginary vents
He sees pearl-blue beauty
And snow-white malice
He’s not haunted
He’s sturdy
His mind is a relic
that
mirrors the splendour
of drifting gulls
He can blow hearts
over the horizons
And when they re-emerge,
they are filled
with hordes of pregnant shells
Emitting brilliant sparkles
He calls it love
For his people
Love for life
He says
it hides neither behind vanity
nor sense
It flows down deserted streets
through broken trails of night lives
It grows out of piles of spiritual litter
and reforms
To ignite another spark
brighter than the first
Then,
it’s called
the human spirit
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