when clouds part and skies become soft with glowing light my soul will fly into the eaves of my first home where my mind will become stone aching back and crooked speech no more suffering it's not the best of all possible things just what the worst can't be no matter what you can see i'll always be with you as you drift over pathways you've taken since time has sifted you By S.F.
‘ii. soul’ marks the second in a collection of poems entitled ‘self’. Who knows where one’s soul goes, if even we have souls at all? But, I know that mine would float back to the first house I know – and perhaps become one with new life. The universe is truly a mysterious place to be born.
These are a collection of poems written in no particular order about thoughts specific to me and mark an entire subjectivity of my life. Some negative; some positive. This past year has been a particularly difficult one and has pushed me to various limits.
Parisian Poetry 