Such an odd thing it is to
craft such a lonely piece
of poetry and publish it
on a website where others
might read into emotion
that seems to bleed from
those words
put down
by yours
truly. Be they fearful
or joyous or of sorrow
or intrigue, the echoes
of feeling
are detached
from the voice
that did dare cast
them, begging
for interpretation
yet no longer a part
of him, his moment of
subjective experience is
all yours
for the taking,
Encapsulating
what he saw,
Inanimate
signs drawn
on thy digital wall.
The reader does read
into your words
but the question I am
asking is what thoughts
do you suppose
belong, to who or whom?
Which pathos do the words
you read belong to? Surely
it is yours, mine has been
detached when I transcribed
those words. Do you see
what I'm getting at?
When you feel you might wonder
where it all comes from.
I ask in my poetry that
I might be healed, that
it might heal me but tell
me, who or what am I asking
this of? Words make up poetry
but they do not endow semantic
properties of themselves, sign
does not equate to significance
for the process of semiosis does
require a subject to deem,
To bestow meaning, to gleam.
It is my intention that this
self-expression should be as
therapy is but I see not the
means or rather its mechanism
we call catharsis but claim no
more, nothing but a few sounds
and some long gone echoes
that remind us of things
I knew we'd never forget
but I never thought it'd
be this difficult
to remember what-
ever beauty was.
Would you mention those foreign times
in the quiet of night
or some other type of cool nocturnal silence?
I am asking you
what the relief
feels like after
actual catharsis
and how the
world appears
changed after-
wyrd. What fate?
What is it that a
poet casts in the
act of poesis, is
it their will made
manifest
or perhaps some Other
thing expelled, bound
together and outcast,
Another will, perhaps,
Whose, how, why and
what becomes of that? Is the word truly inanimate?
