The dryness of my soul turns to dust and falls off of me.

I sweep it up and put it in an old wine bottle.

I watch my soul bits swirl and turn red with the drops left inside.

I am hopeful it will work like old Magick and lift the dead within.

It is worth a shot. The bottle once was the tincture to soothe my soul.

I peek inside with one eye. I smell it.

In desperation for signs of life, I tilt my ear down and listen.

I only hear the hollow of an old bottle, loud in its emptiness.

I carry the remains of my soul to the Garden.

I dig a hole with my hands and a stick.

Making a tube in the ground, I drop the bottle inside the Earth.

On my knees, I cover it with dirt and then water the soil with my tears.

Too tired to move, I lay down and watch the dirt move about my hands.

Laying there, I hear my heartbeat as it pulls my soul back into my body.

It is painful.