The Soul

The Soul. A fabrication of fundamentalist’s
Disregard for epistemic pursuit? I
Saw it once, standing in a black swamp
In my dream, Illuminating through the
Thickets of a stubborn sycamore and brush;
Moss covered and gnarled from the elements
It, clad in tattered white fabric,
Made glow worms writhe in jealousy of its
Warmth.
The coldness of the water, erasing the sight
Of my ankles, crept up.
The splashes on my leg went numb as it
Looked up, Deer-in-the-Headlights.
Run.
Gone.
Wake.