mystery

ephemera that flit on LCDs
transmit a poet's thoughts  no worse than ink
be it by pen or pounding on the keys
pretend to tell another what I think
it's more than I can prove that you exist
deductively, at best I know I've thought
but can I doubt the woman I have kissed
could be--ontologically--a naught?
we're each alone, sov'reigns in our own minds
constructing what we call reality
as much as what's in our caves gets refined
the world beyond could be mere fantasy
and so I cast my verse into the Black
not knowing if there's someone to write back