The integrity, of all of reality,
is twisted around a Father figure,
when we whirl about it's grandeur
to look for final answers.

A bright spark, ignites a flame -
but shatters into fragments all the same -
the dragon of matter in it's making, breaking
bonds of old and burning forms anew.

The revel in the detail - the
trouble it can cause - to question
lessons lasting in the learned lines
that asking groped for, in eternal fear.


We are shaking, when the aching
mark of question, falls over, all anyone
can ever say - but numbers crunch us up
and turn us over.

An inward dive, a carbon rod -
rolled from the height of blown-up time
to a reaching arm, an open hand, an eager mind
to grasp it, turn and throw it.

The dance of fine tunes - identity
driven rhythms - all are given, and taken
for granted - without that awkward asking,
without any unknown dance steps.


That's it. This is all there is -
and there is no more left to say - when
it is okay, to sidestep away from the
useless truth. The begging of questions.


by Gareth Rosser