THE SOUL


The soul has its own palace
its own Taj Mahal
What splendors await us
on the other side
No walls, but gardens
No obstacles to understanding
Your thoughts dovetailing
with mine's

Oh, the soul of Man,
Oscar Wilde saw it coming
A society not burdened
by poverty or posesssions
untrammeled by Time
or earthly things
not vulnerable
like a raw prawn.

Maybe you're soul
is still in the making, however
not fully-formed, your head,
your brain getting in the way,
not child-like as Lord Jesus
meant us to be,
Still attached to the old castle,
the mortal coil,
drawbridge up against strangers,
a long way from Rishikesh.

No net worth of a person,
over there where the soul
is as free as the antelope
and the beer on tap forever
At least, that's my hope,
it may all be soulless too
over there in the 'unobstructed universe'
to borrow a phrase
and that would be truly awful,
a tragedy, something out of Dante,
Okay, stranger passing, Namaste!