Where in
you do my words
become
your comfort?
Where in
my say
do you
specifically feel confirmed?
Where in
this, my silent tonal sound
that you
hear, secures acceptance?
What
travels within you
as what
you heard?
Where in
my unheard voice
does it
color what you view?
Where
does what meaning does
eventually
reside within you?
Who
listens within you
to hear
you through me speak?
Is
conclusion the only tone
passed
along?
If I
speak from my aloneness
can it
not be heard
behind
what I say?
Is my
riddle, in the deepest sense
not
essentially yours?
Where
are we baffled
with
unidentified hyper-vigilance
that
incessantly, though subdued,
vacantly
screams?
Are
there no answers to exclamations?
Where
does the source of exasperation
seek to
land?
How does
frustration find its home
if my
words knock
at the
only door closed?
Why does
the illusion
of
separation so profusely display,
if not
for the scouring
of small
locations of pain?
If our
now has no comparison
worthy
of method
then how
do we counter
each
moment's banter
beyond
pseudo refrain?
Is
expectation is the runt
of each
moment's litter,
overcompensating
for the loss
of self,
possessed
and yet
falsely identified?
Who
needs to mentor our troubles
with the
wardrobe of change?
Who
needs to inspire inevitability
out of
our joy?
Why do
we have topic
doing
hard time
and
propinquity
as
proximity's evil stepchild?
And why
can't dynamic have
no
eventful needs
and
presence be
a razor
sharp endearment,
a
flow-state of realization
as beings
. . . ?
Savored
questions . . .
Inadvertently
repeated often,
though
faceless and unnamed . . .
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