soul

A dead horse.

Of course, I've (accidentally) steered us off course.

I am naked in a photo holding a bottle.

I know these poems do not seem political-

But they've got soul

And soul is what will eventually ruin politics.

The bites itch so we scratch at marks left by ticks-

We are in a room apart.

Like Alyosha, we are wearing monastic dress
whilst running up the tavern steps.

We cradle a heart that ceased beating
two summers ago, however it
has once again began
to pump blood

As well as oxygen, from our chest
up to our head

I think, for the first time- in a long time-
that I am better off than dead.