The beauty is
I wrote you a poem
You didn’t understand.
You couldn’t answer
My question
Because you didn’t know
I asked one.
Therefore I don’t know
The truth
Or how to ask you
In a way
That you’ll understand.
Because you don’t
Seem to understand much.
What was this involuntary
Movement towards the
Imaterial part of me?
Or was it in fact
Voluntary?
How will you understand
I was talking about my
Soul?