The shapes are that of two people.
They do each have a soul,
But it’s hard for them to remember who they are,
When they constantly get new bodies,
And brains filled with memories.
Some of these brains lack certain qualities,
Like proper impulse processing,
Or the ability to produce oxytocin.
Sometimes these beings look down and find,
That they have machine guns in their human hands.
Every time my prison cell opens,
And these two prison guards come through the door,
They have a disgusting and awkward look of displacement,
A look of being forced to live as someone else,
Wondering what is the essence of a soul?
