Should Poor Souls Fear a Shade or Night Who Came Sure from a Sea of Light?

Some days, I like to think the soul
Leaves us as soon as we live, breathe,
Learn a few things. We live; it leaves.

We ache all our lives with the loss.
Then we die, slow or fast, a mess,
All bad ways to go. Our last breath.

And here comes the soul on its way
Back from some strange place where it larked
While we put up with flesh and pain.

The soul slips us on like a glove
Made of life that’s been stretched and tanned,
Stitched and dyed. Look at that. It fits.