This tattered old soul
full of holes
and gaps
where memories
have fallen
through;
This tattered old soul
that yet clings
to those
that whip across
the conscious self
like bright spots of color
where others are faded,
washed out. Dimmed.
And this consciousness
dipped in those bright spots of colour,
I willingly tether
to the tattered old soul
across whose dusty,
faded pages
this story yet unfolds,
for time untold.
Rama Ink. 