The souls of humans
saturate the brain, tickle it,
poke consciousness at importune times.
The souls of humans
invent delusions of transcendence, whispering
until they are hoarse.
The souls of humans mock the souls
of flowers, birds and animals,
forgetting their own code of humility.
The souls of humans
are not shrouds,
but gossamer vessels that contain us
for our mortal lives, then,
their jobs done,
reweave themselves into the mysterious web
we name God.
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