The soul trudges on restlessly voicing their pains as they survey the body top to bottom their mutterings doubling and tripling their sense of importance when echoed against the archway of bone; many would call this art healing. A cloud in a gown holding a candle lights the way from the psoas to the pelvis to the spleen ignoring the sad chords of organs feeling ignored by the speedy diligence of this shimmering float parade, you’re ok, you’re ok, check, check, tick. They’d move faster if they could this genderless glitter soul swimming away from the spectacle of skin, that surface stretch where you can hear grey outdoor wailing, no they go in they go in they go in where it’s quiet toward the center the space between the heart beats there they’ll rest in glimmering madness their art is for no one their art is the map by which they head home.

Originally published at