An impossible role.
A Soul, improbably Noble,
Compiles the Things, Baubles,
Treasures, Thoughts, things that fill The Hole.
Gaping Maw, Grinding Craw,
The Starving Gullet devours All.
But, Soul, Her Message calls
A silent down to pad our fall.
Keeper of Gilded Things,
A Reaper of what Sorrow brings,
To You, Golden Soul sings,
Soft lullabies to soothe the Sting.
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.