Lost souls.
She said,
�My grandmother tells this story:
we are but souls in search
of our lost mate,
criss-crossing the world
like fire in the sky,
aurora borealis threading its way
across the globe,
souls in search of the other half,
intense desires
shredding worldly form
until we find it.�
And those that don�t, think I,
what of those that don�t?
Are they destined to wander
forever
burning traces of light in the sky?
Perhaps they are lightning,
and each crack is a cry of pain
of agony
of loneliness
that the expanse of earth has conquered
and that the soul is alone,
its mate also crying out, somewhere.
I shudder to think
I may one day be a flash of brilliance
across the night sky,
a jagged whiteness reaching down from
the heavens
and finding nothing
but the hardness of the earth.
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