i sit inside my soul to suck the air and wait
out the moments spent with white wraiths,
of swirling, twirling expectations churned
into crisp, fried dreams, now burned.
where are the answers once I knew,
before even God my future drew
or deigned to give me hope in a box
for a destiny without gilded locks?
i sit outside my soul to blow the winds of motion
past the pumps of time with their progressive notion
that life is more alive when outside my soul is lived
the life alive…no longer to sit or dream as hid.
The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor 