Some say the soul is liquid,
syrup
flowing casually to fill any vessel it’s poured into
No will of its own just a
simple resignation and
adherence to the tide
I heard from others that it is
solid, coarse
unyielding in every centimeter
unable to give to another where it already is
a hammer or
a blade, sometimes just a crude rock
but always specific
Then there are those who teach that
the soul is a gas
volatile, spilling off the edges
sparking and cackling and fogging every mirror
neon lights and vapors
Maybe they’re all right about something.
But I was taught that the
soul of man is a fresh olive
tart and green
crushed by stone into
golden oil
set alight in a dancing flame
to warm, to signal
to remember and exalt
to ward and guide
and to be
constantly flickering, surging upwards
reflecting every color
because all fires are one fire
even if you make it yourself
Yet everyone feels that the soul
is something else entirely
and to that the only answer is
probably
I hope we get to find out.
