unfounded questioning

as if here,

at the epicenter of unfounded questioning.

what a format,

as if inquiry ever really matters.

grains of sand in an hourglass

pass as significance, just as well.

"may I have this dance",

seems like a reasonable question to be asking.

but what if the meaning of life

has guffaw in response, 

written all over it ?

how am I supposed to know how to know?

is it babble until it becomes self-understood?

what is the great surrender or gain

if I come to understand?

milestones of life come and go,

and understanding was my means of pseudo passage?

what has real ever saved me from?

I am always in a flotilla of floating with the unknowns.

if I really know,

of what persuasion is that to me?

does my pretend rests upon 

the certitude of my resolve?

for this only gets messier by inquiry.

I guess, 

I can't answer.

so where does questioning come from?

at least not in the format of another question,

as if that's a form of re-redundancy, applied.

so my lips are sealed. 

but I have an earnest heart

that is evident and spent on yearning for, 

and I can't come to question that? . . .