So firm is the soul that carries great weight.

But soft and trusting is the soul of fate.

Curious, I ponder, my mouth agape,

Of the precious soul and about its shape.

Does the soul take form of what we admire?

Or twist and sculpt into what we inspire?

Yes, is it dependent on what we keep?

Or does it sharpen when we let friends weep?

Is the size of the soul the same for all?

Or does it rise and shrink, never so tall?

I wrack my brain to a rhy-thm-ic craze

Whether the soul is solid or a haze.

So sadly I stop, we truly don't know.

We are the bodies until we let go.