The soul is a finite thing,
expended and exchanged
through social interactions. Like a plant,
it will die if not tended to,
and in the wrong soil, it’s maturity will be stunted.
The soul can be stolen
in the right circumstances,
by people, by things.
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
In the city, the snow falls down
pristine, but doesn’t stay that way for long.
Nothing in the city limits stays white;
you either leave in fear of turning black
or learn to live grey, picking up the dirt of the cars
and the houses and the smoke