The soil of the soul is it fertile or fallow?
Is its rich loam of spores or foam?
Who enriches and fills these ditches
With all that is good or bad? And would it take
A gardener who is mellow or one who
Needs the gallows to cultivate its worth?
And when did it begin before or after birth,
In Heaven or simply come from the Earth or
Darker places below in the dungeons of doubt
Where the wicked shout out for cursory mercy
In demented dominions? Is it purely opinions
Of the segregated minions following the leader
Of choice? Where is the voice of truth? Can we
Find it in the voting booth? Or are the politicians
All the same with nary soul for them to claim?
Who do we blame but ourselves. For the soil of
Our souls belongs to the one who holds it in their
Own hands and chooses the band that they will
Follow. Pick up the rake, the shovel, the shit
Turn the soil and mix it a bit to fertilize and utilize
Its value. For in the end, my friend, the keeper
Will be the Reaper of the harvest.

Kathy Lockhart
11/1/07