What does a soul weigh?

What are the tiny particles that make up our art, our way of putting words together–our music?

Are the objects to our eyes which are beautiful to be counted in the heft of our being?

When we die, are we but shells? That which we were only in flesh and bone and sinew?

How do we measure what pleases us; what makes us laugh and cry?

Does all that disappear? Or can it be counted?

Is there a number which can represent all that we are?

What does our soul weigh?

It is infinite.