The Ever-Elusive Graviton

All souls are like gravity,
Poor fits for standard models
That everything else fits well,

So weak up close as to be
Beyond inconsequential,
Negligible, nothing much

At the fine edge of nothing,
Vanishing from equations
Like the spirits they inspire

But subtly in existence
Nonetheless, cumulative
Beyond any boundary,

Infinitely capable
Of curving to swallow all,
Even light, even themselves.

The love of sufficient souls
Will crush you, crush anything,
Stretch across the universe

To bend direction itself
In its direction, swallow
And vanish and keep growing.

A soul can reach to the edge,
Origin and conclusion,
Immune to subdivision

But can only be measured
By whatever it isn’t,
Since what a soul is isn’t.