My questions are exhausted. I’ve pursued them on foot and with wings. Those questions of how to make sense of the chaos.
I’ve hemmed them in with guardrails, barriers, rituals, and traditions. So much whirl and swirl, particles of dust that clog my nose and throat.
Never have my questions confessed their answers.
Perhaps I’m just a crumbling cell in a beautiful wound I call the universe.
Perhaps I just need to stop. Stop and love what I don’t understand.
published on Write Under the Moon
There's a lot to like about this piece...that raw, real sincerity is there, your poet's voice, the lovely last line, and engaging ideas.
It is the power of your words keeping me here on your blog...hope that's ok.
Perhaps the answer is in the question, as they say..
Must get a coffee. I once asked if you drink tea or coffee but never said why. I think it is so interesting, these two categories, coffee and tea drinkers-