Naked Soul

Would you follow St. Francis into the desert
or pull the blinds pretending not to see him pass
bend your thoughts into a fantasy of want and will
wait at the threshold for the neighbors to quiet,

The wicked mistake goodness for timidity
only willing to comprehend what need not be explained
they do not seek to learn the varied textures of passion
or test intuitive lovers who wrap their conscience in whispers,

A naked soul is a river of mirrors
a reflection of rushing need
the hope for that bit of blue to show through
to pull that second breath another step,

The feckless count on currents of glory to lead them on
they would follow St. Francis into Hell

if there was a promise of greatness awaiting  

an uneven stake in the music of chance