I do not know if I have a soul,
it is hard to believe something
you’ve never seen - if it is well strapped
to my spine or it sags like loose skin.
You said it is beautiful, your words,
not mine, as if you had held it close,
a rose by your fingertips to inspect.
You peel petals open on your lips.
I am doubtful - or unwise and the mind
is a revved up machine at midnight.
If I have a soul, what color is it in, black,
blue or green. Do I chip it when I sin.