Selfometer Poems

A Matter of Man's Soul

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Oldfield, Brenda M

Man maybe made, just of matter
Or a soul wrapped, in calculation
Or perhaps, it's just the latter

But not withstanding either
It comes not as a breather
To discern man as a whole

Sensed by his senses
A matter that moves his soul
Within the mind's abysses

It doesn't matter his soul is lost
He must find it, at all cost
Ordered by time, or some rhyme
That his soul be in order

And moved along in Space
By a wretched motion
To the blundering fury of time
In some geometric, spatial theatre

Echoing, a cruel display
For man's matter and soul
So nothing matters, but the soul of man
For man is nothing, but the soul of matter