Looking Glass Of One's Soul

Within without the hunger of our souls are crying out,

struggling to break free they angrily shout.

The eyes of one's soul is like fine glass,

peering into the heart of one's mysterious past.

Knowone knows where the mind dwells,

like in the land of the a dreamer knowone tells.

Some ache for that deep spiritual need,

while others are craving the need to be freed.

Some souls are like swords with a sharp jagged edge,

and if given the chance they'd jump off a ledge.

Like digging their nails into one's face,

is like spitting out anger with just one taste.

Souls of another deminsion of neither here nor there,

like bitter vile they just don't care.

Sometimes if one looks real hard they'll see,

the keeper of the souls is the one with the keys.