Poetry,
I often try to think,
Is a felicitous marriage
Of perception and thought
For better or worse
For richer or poorer
And not even parted by death

Because
Capital T, Capital H, Capital E
Soul
THE soul
Not yours mine or ours
Not even gods or goddesses
Just THE
(please, in your mind, always see THE capitalized)
THE soul of everything
Infinity in a grain of sand, to borrow shamelessly
From one of those old dead white men
Who were assumed for generations to be the only ones
Able to express THE (all caps, remember) soul

THE soul is so very different from a soul
And yet, of course, a single soul is 
Every bit as much
THE total soul as 
THE total soul is each single soul
Which bring us squarely into the realm of 
Quantum physics

Next stop, surely, is the illusion of linear time
But the individual soul animating these fingers
Feels the need to stop words and rest
Quiet
Secure
In awareness of THE (all CAPS, remember) soul.