I rest in the dark with the rain outside

and know that there are three enemies…

One

is a gun

with your name on it

Two

is the dark horned one

who will give you something

for your soul

Three

is the most common

like smoking, which kills so many

and blackens

the lungs—

the slow killing

of the soul.

It can’t be strangled

on the gallows

It can’t be crushed

under a car.

It can’t be shot

in the head.

It dies with a whimper

that the ears can’t hear.

It’s what happens to most people.

It’s your song

that gets re-recorded.

Your poem that gets erased

Your heart that only pumps blood.

The slow accumulation of laws

that don’t serve you.

The soul dies when it’s neglected

when it’s starved for food

when there is no fuel for the fire

no music for the song

The soul doesn’t have time to waste

it dies, if it doesn’t belong.

The soul walks into church

and knows it doesn’t live there.

The soul listens to other souls

and becomes sick.

The soul sees the invisible genocide,

and knows that love is blind,

because even murderers have mothers.

In the humblest conditions

the soul keeps us warm

and allows the body to sleep

peacefully.

The soul looks at madness

beyond its comprehension

and for a companion

without much luck.

The soul looks for a kindred soul

in books

symphonies

and the agonies of the martyrs.