Here’s the original version of Soul:
Iambic pentameter length lines with
No concern for the number of stresses.
Comparison with the sonnet version
Proves form influences the final poem.
Ethereal, intangible, in question—
It cannot be seen, it cannot be proven.
With gossamer fingers it maintains
A tenuous grasp on human consciousness.
Will we deny ourselves and all we are
Because we won’t believe what we can’t see?
Philosophers from millennia past
And great theologians—all these agree
The spark of humanity far exceeds
What nature alone presumes to give us.
This subliminal existence points us
Toward a sublime truth: Neither animals
Nor gods, our mere being poses more questions
Than physics and all the sciences can
Explain… so the answers must lie beyond
This mortal coil, in the realm of the soul.