My Soul is Tired

My Soul is tired, resting at my feet
heavy with the words of ancient poetry
knitted like a shroud over it.

Dark is its red clay, almost black
with the losses of love and desire
that have spilled from my wine glass.

I dibble passion on the tablecloth of time,
yet few notice the stain that I leave.
My soul absorbs the condensation.

I try to lift my soul from its lowly place,
but its heavy weight doesn't budge.
No amount of fairy dust makes it lighter.

Night descends upon me, black as a sea.
Will I drown in the darkness, no light shining
as the ground splits open, devouring my soul?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Funny how heavy poetry can feel.