There are certain days, when I feel, Maybe my soul was milked out of a willow tree. Opalascent sap, maneuvered into a soul kind of thing. And placed, right where 'twas supposed to be. But then, it strikes; souls don't have shapes, form or matter. They cant be seen, or touched. But if mine could ; it would feel like wet clay, That clings to the fingers, that knead through it. With a soft persistence; refusing to let go." (23/04/2013)