Do you hear that?
That voice?
Yes.
Do you hear it,
feel its shape,
gauge its depth?
Who is it, this voice?
It is you.
You never notice it,
You pay it no mind;
Funny thing is,
It is your mind.
Observing it too intently,
attempting to identify it,
trying to trace its silhouette
simply sends it flying,
flying far away
into the depths of the mind
wherein you have no tangibility.
Yes.
A voice, the fluttering wings
of an owl navigating the darkness
and how elusive,
ambiguous,
cryptic
is this owl,
forever in-flight.
Amidst your mind,
this voice heard
— or rather, unheard —
is you.
But,
is it not
me?
You read what I have written,
your mind speaks my word,
and in that way,
do I not become the speaker?
What I write,
you now possess in your mind.
What I sow,
you reap.
And you read.
You read daily,
carelessly,
involuntarily,
analytically,
curiously,
emotionally.
So my inner speech,
poured through pen,
etched upon paper,
entraps your eye,
and effortlessly invades your thoughts,
like so many phonetic soldiers.
Yet from this power stems connection.
What do I wish from this connection?
Control? Companionship? Confidentiality?
No:
Communication.
So here I write,
and here you read,
and oh, how I hope
for my owl
to land upon your branch.
