Souls weren't meant to save,
Like Sunday clothes that
give out at the seams.
They're made for wear;
they come with a lifetime guarantee.
Don't save your soul.
Pour it out like rain
on cracked, parched earth.
Give your soul away,
or pass it like a candle flame.
Sing it out,
or laugh it up the wind.
Souls were meant for hearing
breaking hearts, for puzzling dreams,
remembering August flowers,
forgetting hurts.
These folk who talk of saving souls?
They have the look of bullies
who blow out candles before you
sing happy birthday,
and want the world to be in alphabetical order.
I will spend my soul,
Playing it out like sticky string
Into the world...
So I can catch every last thing I touch.
Next time someone asks, "Is your soul saved?"
Say, "No, it's spent, spent, spent!"
--Linder Unders
[Photo of remembered August flowers.]
