Conversations

The words are glistening streams

trickling into the rivers that gush

into the seas, parables and fables

drenched in society’s lurid ink.

Under parchment and feather

tipped pens, or clicked out onto

keyboards, under fluorescent lamps,

drops of ideas that coalesce into

oceans of beliefs, and rivers of thought;

these conversations flow on forever.

A friend once posited that it is not

us who are alive, merely we are vessels

for the life of ideas, and another friend

says, in Cartesian lines, that the thoughts

are our existence and they are our vessels,

still another says that we are biological

lawnmowers, our thoughts just by products

like exhaust fumes. Hume may cringe

and Descartes may quiver at the idea

that thoughts are just drops that form

oceans, spilled by these human rivers.