Fractions Of It, Gone

In the course of our sore hands
Grabbing redwoods and focusing
The center of joy, peace, love
Angst, lust, caustic bile
We’ve divulged this bloodied artery
And this squirming, small grey mass
Just so those of them with a wise cricket
Could hopefully understand the state of being
Felt every passing of 24 hours, every 7 days
Each month, year, decade
And century, for that’s how long it feels sometimes
When you let the good or bad dictate

But sometimes they don’t get it
And if you believe in the soul
That lies six feet below your skin
You lose a small part of it