Bullet-Soul
We are all cold, dark and hollow
The pit that exists in us all,
It is blacker than any night,
At any hour.
Light does not fill you up
It cannot exist in a place such as the one,
That harbors pain inside every one of us.
It permeates, evidently.
These are bullet holes,
Shrapnel of the soul that is punched through,
Which often regenerates, rejuvenates.
The soul is strong.
It can withstand the pain,
It is meant to keep it trapped, locked away,
Yet, also stored as evidence and ammo.
This is also the same reason,
As to why light will never complete you.
It will never make you whole,
It sure as hell won’t clean your soul.
What it will do,
Is provide you with jolts of understanding,
Needle pricks of perspective,
Bee stings for ballast.
We all beat our souls,
To within an inch of our lives.
This, the purpose of a soul’s existence;
Canon fodder and comprehension,
Clarity in duality.
Copyright © Patrick Hamilton | Year Posted 2020
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