He was thought to be a genius by those who knew him best.
His output was prodigious; himself a source of infinite jest.
He was said to be obsessed by one who would not be his wife.
He was suffering from depression on the day he took his life.

There is no cure for sadness or the shadows that pursue.
Medication only does so much when sunny days turn blue.
His essays and his stories had garnered much acclaim,
And once you’d read his novel you would not forget his name.

So one day in early fall; rope tied around his throat,
David used his exit strategy from a life devoid of hope.
That is how she found him; suspended from the stairs.
Swinging softly like a pendulum, there, beyond the help of prayers.

What is a a soul really composed of?
This question is driving me mad,
I think about it, and it is disheartening,
The answer I lean towards is disappointing and sad.

Humans are made from flesh and bone,
Muscle, hair, 10 pints of blood,
Energy to efficiently move each part
A brain holding thoughts in a flood.

I am becoming very doubtful,
As I am writing these words down,
Is a soul what creates emotions,
Tells mouth to smile or frown?

We deny any possibility,
That ends with loss, sorrow, or pain,
I reach up for higher meaning,
Find no knowledge to gain.

Most people's beliefs rest upon a cloud,
Bathed in a golden glow,
I cannot put my faith in something,
No person for certain can know.

I worry souls are nothing else,
But feelings stemming from our brains,
If that is true, when our bodies leave this world,
And our last breath drawn, what remains?