My parents don’t have the answer
and my job doesn’t have the answer
and the half-dozen souls I talk to each day, don’t have the answer
and when I find the answer, unexpectedly
after complaining to my parents or moaning about the job while staring at their blank faces
I worship the truth, and wonder
if this makes sense to me, and nothing else does, it must have some value
Why can’t I get that, everywhere else I go?
Women don’t have the answer—though, their youth and beauty should have it
but it’s rare for her to recognize you, like she belongs to you, because she is a part of you
she is not Eve, pulled out of Adam
but a stranger, admiring her profile, in the unrippling reflection of her cell phone, where her pictures are trapped, and her friends can’t escape
and she wonders why, she doesn’t feel loved.
the answer can’t be found in church
nor is it found in nature
it can’t be given, or maintained
it is as ethereal as air
filling your lungs with fullness
in an empty world
the answer is waiting
when you walk into parties, and watch people drugging
they can’t find it
and they brag that they have it
the answer is all you need
among questions that don’t make sense
Why, did my best friend die?
How, do I create my life out of nothing?
If the advertised answers are false
and the prescribed ones
poison the soul
how do we know when we find it, if nobody else will recognize it?
Faith, my friend
can’t be explained, spoken, or heard
it’s a silent language.