Hidden in the shell at the bottom of your soul.
In the hollow of your neck where your vertebrae’s buckle.
The palm of your hand.
It resides. Coughing out songs and laughter.
As you cry.
You choose and change this religion.
Writing your own dreams to dapple these eyelids of the young.
Sticky with Jesus kisses and Vaseline.
Now, there was someone with a bad judge of character.
Yet judge not, lest ye be judged as you chorus and ring in these ears.
Off with their heads and bring the bones to your feet.
Suck the soul from within like sap from a tree.
Or a balloon full of fear. Inhaled in a quiet dark room.
Where the shadows and ugly realities lie.
In wait. Ready to buzz out in phosphor.
Though it all means nothing to you. A new leprosy for a non-contact age.
Kept at a distance and viewed only through a screen.
As your neck gives in, staring at a phone all day.
You tie their necks back. A soft motherly touch, done in pink ribbons and lace.
They do not notice how tight you pull, as their view clouds and all they hear is your voice.
Talking, not of the bombs you will drop or the mustard gas breath you hiss.
You tell them they are superman.
Bittersweet and free.