The Birth of Doubt

I know I have a soul
Because I feel it within me
Tugging at my insides
Gnawing at my flesh
In want of being worn in the outside

And although it hardly comes out these days
And whilst not, it sits half-heartedly
In waiting
And wanting,
It roars nonetheless
Low-pitched and visceral as if of real substance
Making me feel
The lesser
Or the greater when the rare occasion arises

Feeling, in any event,
A little less happy, a little less “me”
For souls can also dwell on the emptiest of spaces
And make it theirs
Turning us, with them,
Into cold, miserable bitches

Whilst the brain decides with reason
The soul’s ways are its own
Brutal is their battle
The body endures it
Like a loyal soldier
The faithful, torn lover in the triangle

As you can see, there is no evident end to the conflict
So please stop saying the choice is mine

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