The soul is what escapes when mouth and lips

Shut finally.  The breath goes out before,

But breath is breath and— after that soul slips

Out.  Teeth cannot hold in the troubadour

Of meaningless existence.  Souls await

Release.  Your soul will fly away to space

So vast that all the souls in every state

Must shrink there then forget them far from grace,

So far that even Blackest Holes could not,

Despite enormous weight, detect much less

Recover them, or if black could would blot

Them into less than crushed down nothingness.

  This mist of mist of mist evaporates

    And then is swallowed into weightless weights.

© Phillip Whidden