Swatting At Doors
Where do spirits go during the hours,
When one is doing daytime chores?
Where do spirits hide their shadows
When not dark
And swatting at doors?
Spirits are like silent emotions,
They weep, they sleep,
And love for the common soul.
Where do spirits confess sins,
When they have passed to distant shores?
Where do spirits find passion,
When many people disrespect vibrations,
Dreaming in their own chaotic mode?
Spirits are architects of one's sensuality,
They caress, they whisper,
Kiss away hatred
And love life, in their passing.
Where do spirits fly when in flight,
When the weather is not cloudy?
Where do spirits sleep,
When yawning with insomnia?
Laughing at the humor of it.
In the dark of my eeriness,
Etching prose until morn,
Looking up at my clock
And swatting at doors.
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