Sing to my soul.
Take it to the marrow.
Later, we will dervish around the roses until we fall into our souls.
Up to the stars they carried our knowing essence, while our souls ground below.
I’ll meet you there someday again.
The psychic told me we were not to meet during this life.
Yet, like a puzzle with a missing piece, we found ourselves in a crowded place, mirrored.
We are an abstract in time.
© 04-June-2007 Sonja J. Phinney (for Chris Volpe)
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