On Souls

Cynical Wordsmith

I stopped writing
For a time.
Not because the thoughts,
The beautiful phrases
And failings,
Had stopped permeating my mind,
But because there was so little
Of my soul left to give
After the day in,
Day out drudgery.

It’s not that there was less,
But more that exhaustion
And emotional dilution
Built up barriers
And barred the baring
Of myself.

Certain people believe
Taking a photo of someone
Steals their soul,
But souls are much more often
Freely given,
In carefully chosen words
And subtle, engulfing gazes.

I can’t define a soul,
But I’m sure I have one,
Just as I have a consciousness
But I don’t know precisely
Where it comes from.

A bit of mine is here,
Myself, my soul.
You can’t control it,
You can’t change it.
You can only look on,
As if peering into an ocean,
And wonder silently
How profound,
How abysmal

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