Questions Without Marks

I feel them all,

These whispers without whispering,

As they rattle secretly -and not –

Around this real-ether world.

We’ve never been face-to-face

Yet, disturbingly, and its opposite

She knows me so well.

There are moments, she says

Without speaking when she hangs

On my words. There are days,

I know when I am held in thrall by

Her brutally innocent intuits:

Questions without marks.

“Were we not more whole,

More in touch, when we respected

Those who commune with serpents?

When we recognised the snake as

Healer rather than nightmare?”

Nightmare ?

Born, innocently enough,

In the full, clear light of day –

As simple mischiefs often are –

As sunset-shadows grew long,

It started to go a little bit wrong.

With dark-thoughts getting stronger

It got sinisterly wronger

So, when black night was longest,

Screams at their strongest

It reached dreadful-climax wrongest.

 

 

(My apologies to the grammar purists out there.)