You won't find my soul
In my briefcase.
I checked it earlier
The lock was faulty and
Someone must have stolen it.
You won't find my soul
In my wardrobe either.
Somehow moths got in
And their hungry children
Have eaten it to shreds.
You won't find my soul in my cellar.
It's too dark and too damp
And a soul can't survive long
Among all that useless stuff
You keep but never need.
And my soul isn't useless.
I'm cold and poor without it.
It was supposed to be indestructible.
I'm sure I put it in a `safe place'
Maybe in my bookcase...
I pull out all the books,
Flick through all the pages,
Corners bent over, half read -
Something flutters out -
What was it? A moth?
An unsent letter? An illegible note?
Some dried seeds? Or a yellowed bus ticket
I don't remember buying
To a place I didn't visit.
Peter Jukes 2006
