Wine and Vinegar

“At the end of the day all my conscience can experience is limited to what is in my own mind,
why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

penned quietly with the pads of fingers unknown to my device of primary communication,
“I can’t say that you need to care, I’m not one to always care either but I think it’s important for something deep inside.”

Letting the words steep like wine,
age with the settling dust of time,
and after years,
softly popping the cork out,
noting how the tannins have developed themselves,
and though this has taken so long in my world of words
it is nothing to the ticking seconds,
to your mind,
you have forgotten,
will more likely than not forget again
upon reading your old thoughts:

“why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

I wish I could say,
possible that it is a matter of soulful principle
something that pulls us away from becoming machines
that keeps the cogs and oil at bay and washes our minds clean
or possible that the sensitivity of each capsule
each gallon or so of blood contains its own level of care
or of sensitivity rather,
that seems to be more true as the hours of this shell
draw closer to sunset,
to a sleep,
a snore,
a twitch,
a violent wake,
There is only a bit of resonance among humans
as if the aged wine of our souls over time,
becomes more and more vinegar,
less and less of something that could be sold
and enjoyed with dinner.


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