Jei Ente

We don’t like ideas we can’t translate into language,
we cannot stand such primordial, esoteric eloquence
we cannot be but so boring and we never seize difference,
for fear of losing all articulation,
we sheepishly whisper to the world,
because that is all that composes our sense of sense,
a deep sigh for existence
and a scratch on the earth we stand on,
an oration to the bizarre state of mind
effectively concealed,
skin and confusion,
a puff revealing a breath long invisible,
evidence of having no control,
relief for humanity so long evasive,
and poetry is nothing. ▪