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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact

"Souls" (by Joe DiMino)

When I was a young man
What is now called soul
Was something
Only cobblers admired—
Left and right
Never on top,
Sacred inscriptions
Kept far
Above the arch—

In days gone by
The spirit really did fly,
Above the fluff
Of lowly clinging clouds,
Often bright
But none-the-less shrouds
Of mediocrity,
To some lofty place,
Just shy of Heaven
Where poets’
Inspirations are given,
But not to those
Approaching by step
And bending knee,
But to those
Gliding high and free,
Souls clear
Of abrasive pavement…

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