A More Polished Soul, Finely Ground

Am I a fool for what I do? I inhabit souls, and more than one. I have reason to believe That if I cease to grieve Or give the affection thou greedily breathe I shall never feel bereaved If I lose one soul That was meant for me, But was writhing, with a spear in the headless throat, singing in your name. A more polished soul is one without clutter. One good soul removes the other My old memory, a blameless brother My present, a shameful mother. A more polished soul, finely ground. One with the dust, so wind is found!