The soul, to me, is the intellect. Before, I didn’t need it, for I didn’t need to think that much, as my whole life had only been flesh and corporeal. But now that I need it more than ever🤣, that I need to think a lot, because writing is an intellectual thing, isn’t it? I need to find my intellect again🧐, thus, this poetic metaphor, an ode to the mind.

Am coming back to you on a wing of storm
(an ode to the mind)
A sky teared, opened
A form, levitated, hovered
My body trembled, raptured
Everything around, fell down, so sad
I tried, likewise, to reach
But my mind, ran away, to a beach
But still, our link, unbroken
Our eye, remote, and hidden
I realized, my only pleasure, taken
You were lost, then thought, forsaken
Oh! My feathery soul, I had to find you
Wherever you were, under that sky so blue
Am coming back to you, on a wing of storm
Tearing my flesh, to find again your form
My corporeal, its core, was attracted, and gravitated
Around, man-made planets, all, illusions
But now, that I have dragged myself out
Am coming back to you, on a wing of storm
Ready to dive inside, the cosmic ocean
There where, without any attraction
We'll only float, carried by the current
Until we touch, and remember, what we have been.
-Eiravel-