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

because

it’s a silent language.