The Glorious Convalescence of My Soul

by Steven J. Serafiani

Sure, I don’t believe in
centuries of religiosity, Abraham to every; but there is
an essence and I don’t
believe myself  to be a
bad man.
Suzanne, Sarah, Kelly, Ashley and on may disagree; but

they heal.

I’ve skinny dipped in vats of Inca inhibition,
a streetlight swim in potatoes and grain but
I never fought my feelings or battered compassion,
I was curious, still am; curious as to how deep I could
run and what existence I could conjure;

Heavy petting with flower stems behind closed bookstores in gentleman night, or
Key West locals blade pull, sure of death;
Just a couple in the
uncircumcised adventures coursing through the veins of my populous mischief youth.

So my soul, somewhere in torso, if so,
lays in a bed, parking
grapevine lips to the north and south for pearly white grateful.
I had my 20’s and made
them sing,
the crooner of lust and
drink and meaningful moments of life’s coastline foreplay; now

I heal.

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