Deep, deeply buried, below seeing or knowing,
lie our secret selves. Thin filaments
of cognition and will alone connect us.
Who’s to say you are not the same as I?
Who can say what we are not?
When you strip meaning of language
what is left but volition?
What mute railing narratives strain
to form themselves?
One of your finest, Mikels. Poignant and lyrical…
Thanks, Elaine. Any praise from you is high praise.