that hurt so bad

and seem so long

and feel so empty

that I believe

the depth of space

exists itself

inside my soul.

And then there are

those tiny moments

of wonder, of peace,

and of utter rapture

in which I feel

the life of all

deep in my heart.

The hardest to bear,

of all my moments,

are those that fall

between these poles.

For then I see,

without distort,

the shape and form

of my own soul.

It’s not the same as what it ought,

and what in me has this change wrought?

Is it alone from single souls

which differ all as must they should?

Or is it just

something

completely

different?