I open my hands to souls, time to time
When we wake they face out from us
A soul at its burrow in dry soil
or a chink in the cosmos
where the gases whisper their enduring adulation
One soul thrusts a pick axe into the chthonic ores of devotion
Another picks up a banner dropped by the fallen
When you see a soul shoot its way across the mesmerized troposphere
shout it out to peoples everywhere
All the souls we can sense are subject to rising
climbing and descending from on high
A soul is fire and fury
doom for those who divert it into erroneous paths
All my souls
are ascending
Yes—they levitate, joined by a crowd
They are trying to unite with something transcendent, not yet come into view
but which I will also ascend to
Andy Oram
October 17, 2026