Ask me the questions,
Answers are pieces.
The fragment live like the shards of a star far away.
A headache that doesn’t quite understand the questions asked or the answer.
Where is the sound coming from and why?
The answer isn’t so simple, the question a jumble of writing not legible.
Even if every morning points the same direction, it doesn’t answer the question.
Hearing too late, being too late, it’s too late.
I only want to talk about it, but there’s no way to speak.
Words that could be said, words that should be said out loud.
Every road has a dead end, no through road,
So the questions were answered, they return in context,
But asking the silent self doesn’t return them,
But in quiet whispers,
That point in the same direction.
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