Poetry is a mode of consciousness
If I were to tell you that
That no one could speak words
If it weren’t for language
Would you be grateful for the
Imperfect means of non-silence?
In the midst of living, we are
Trapped in death, it’s the isolation
Of not being able to communicate
Our authentic meaning
Technology only multiplies
This realization, if I were to tell you
That all others know of us
Are mere words, illusions, approximations
Would you understand
That poetry for me is my
Attempt, like an autistic means
To communicate with forever?
The tears float between us
But my feelings remain private
Wine shared still tastes stale
If I know the exotic flavour of my suffering
Is something you have never experienced?
So when we drink together
Do not imagine that we know how
To efficiently empathize
In an unfeeling universe.