The Question

Who in consistent inquest
paces for orientation?
Succumbing to mauling query:
bother and pother.
Turpitude in a serpentine twist.
All of which
should be assigned
a sword that splits
a blade of grass.
In each side
an answer
that sensations trouble
the same.

Daily awaken with
the same questions.
Was I a thought today,
terrifying your mind?
Did my absence retrieve
a patient sleuth,
gumshoeing
the idea of our worst tyranny?

Situations,
at a glance...
Face to face:
the only time
all of my inquiry
becomes still.
I just wanted some answers.
Lean in and press.
I didn't learn anything.

What bothers me,
fidelity?
I can't tell you.
When our eyes met I forgot the damn question.

Before

Before.
What's in store,
as the door slightly creaks
and you
are continuing to peer through.
Anxious for the minutes
as the time came to pass.
I verbalize yesterday
but worry about tomorrow.

Lovely days of before,
chest clenched and sore
only by the ties of narration.
I tell about your virtue
in storytelling lore
although
I don't think my counterparts feel the same.

Conclusions about before
often a reflection you seemed to ignore
as I fight for a valid reason in this convocation of obscurity:
opinionated plebeian biased irregularity.
Friends who turned out to be enemies
sent out a draft
but I didn't go to war.

Instead
my heart just aches.
Some ghosts are actually alive.
These days, I lock and bolt the door.

I'll be Poe if you are Eleanor.
Haunting me
not in mustering flight
but with nightmares that I may not be able
to see you again.

Rest yourself
and be assured
I am as authentically real
as the last time you remembered.
Impermanence of life
pushes even the most stubborn....
One day this may not be a recollection
but for now
everyday I carry you with me
I love you just as much as I did before.