The Question

Like treacle from a jar --

unhurried my feet are

Earthlike velcro belabouring every step

forcibly I hurry onward

Foot falls sound out

clip-clop, clip-clop

much too quickly -- each an urgent question

each question an accusation 

My body's insurrection 

to my rapid pace without direction.

The questions I flee

call from my foot falls out to me

What is your passion?

clip-clop

What will you do?

clip-clop

Ragged I stop

Inhaling air like the first fruit of spring

Silence -- 

The questions return, slowly, as an itch

Even my skin is rebelling

My inability to answer offending every atom of my body

I scratch--

The relief is short lived.

It comes back an itching red bump.

Throbbing like an accusation

Each itchy pulse demanding to know --

How could I go on, without knowing the answers?

Author's Note

Any comments would be appreciated

Reviews

[Valentine]

You seem like an avid thinker. Not many young people are. Valentine