I look at you through eyes that see: windows that show you looking back.
I can’t see you.
The best they’ll do
Is show how you appear.
My ears that hear for me are filled with words you issue through your lips.
All my replies
Between my mouth and views.
Our conversations manufactured goods from living factories.
The tools we wield?
Into imperfect flesh.
The brains that think for us are not immune. Like riverbeds, their grooves
Channel our moods
Through feelings’ biased hues.
A throne of dopamine their perch. They think they’re kings; they’re paupers too.
While we have minds,
They’ve been consigned
To flawed, imperfect forms.
We’re not our brains. They’re part of us.
We’re each a soul complete.
We are all made of thought and love,
And yet we pilot meat.
We are but monsters lurching to and fro:
Our selves in search of other selves to know.
In honor of World Mental Health Day, celebrated on the 10th of every October.