where why doesn't hurt anymore

 

I have the question 'why', 

as if a past has a hunting to it,

as if a stone throw upon a pond, 

that has with time, past and gravity descent.

I wondered about the nature of questioning

from what query of quarry they come,

what self had to be 

to find the lineage of questioning 

as it's own form of wandering ponder.

for the how of what is lost, 

for puzzlement to be a poser,

for surface to exist,

as if mass was in need of framing.

I have asked for excitement 

to not have a beginning

but then feel possibly cursed

if it had no end,

as if to expose 

the downfall of my linear mind.

when discussion was just intended 

as a river flow,

I had to come to words,

as if obviously declaratively wet,

if not from the splash, 

but from the intention of the throw.

when not in the stream of being any more,

my mind is like a wardrobe worn

as if everything sensory is wet,

mirrored in return.

so much of the disease for narratives

is as if they can go where words cannot,

where location does not exist,

and existence has no persistence of presence.

just transcendently evaporative, unceasing, 

without any further questioning . . .