Soul

This is an experimental sonnet:
Lines are iambic pentameter length
But with only four stresses on each line.

Ethereal, fleeting, evasive, in doubt—
It cannot be seen, it cannot be heard
Yet gossamer fingers may lift the devout
From bowels of gloom where hopes lay interred.
Philosophers from millennia past
And great theologians—all these believe
The spark that ennobles us cannot be cast
From the selfsame mold as the world we perceive.
Subliminal consciousness clearly points us
To a truth more sublime: As neither beast
Nor god, our presence here anoints us—
Indeed, compels us—to seek the priest
Presiding over this mystery cult.
Ignoring this task brings a dire result.