Tag Archives: question

An Element of Rust

An element of rust remains
Upon the earth and what it contains.
No matter what rain may come
Still there’s rust when the day is done.
Iron towers crumble, boulders fade before the wind.
A question of death and the wages of sin.
Why should you wonder? Put it from your mind.
Rust to soil, then back to human kind.
Imperfect decay, gives birth to perfect form: us.
In all this there’s at least one word to trust,
Life is life, and death is death,
And from both we must make the best.



A specific space and time
There-being and being there,
How is existence really defined?
By thinking or not, or, many reductions?
Or by gravity, space, and times many influxes?
Here I am not knowing.
Such questions continually sowing,
The only absolute truth:
We absolutely know nothing.
But in knowing nothing absolutely,
We know something irrefutably.
Nothing becomes something,
Something becomes doubt.
The search for truth continues,
Truth is absolutely the only truth,
I guess this is what it’s all about.

An Abandoned Chair

An empty seat, no need for dispair
Though it may happen to be a chair.
That is meant for one to learn in,
Twist and turn and thoughts to burn in.
One may question, one may wonder
How is our future torn asunder?
When there is no one there to learn,
In that chair, to feel concern.
When forgotten is the reason we
Remember the past and all we’ve seen.
It is found abandoned, this empty seat,
And found flatlined is the minds heartbeat.
No need is felt, no drive to know,
Where does the shadow on the future go?
And tragedy will seize the day when an empty chair, in an empty class,
In an empty school, is all of what lasts.

Ode to a Rose

And to the budding rose,
This question I do pose:
“Why did He make you so,
Beautiful, divine, and altogether sublimed?”
Searching within my mind
The answer I then find:
Just to make something fine;
To bless the world with beauty.
With all that it could be.

Asking Why

Beneath a thin veil, so barely hidden
Eyes downcast do as they’re bidden.
Question once, question twice,
One thinks once would more than suffice.
But for the inquiry no answers.
Only punishment and shame, equally fickle dancers.
In all this asking, there’s no wondering:”why?”
Should there be a veil for those who haven’t died?
Am I already dead inside?
Why are we punished for asking why?

Questioning Illusions

We cannot trust one more, one less,
We cannot trust ourselves unless, We accept this dream for what it seems.
We must embrace, then, what it brings.
Dream or reality? Who can tell, does it matter
When dreams themselves do not bother to flatter?
They do not think, they do not feel!
For heavens sake they aren’t even real!
What are dreams but reality only the dreamer can touch?
And what is an illusion if not then viewed as such?
These are questions. These are things
That define us, it would seem.
Not the answer, but the search,
And all we find there in between.

A Question of Who

A crisis not of many words
And terrifying in its simplicity.
Approaches from behind the shadows
Cast by ones own identity.
“Who am I?” then “Who are you?”,
The better question arises.
The answer relative, in a vacuum of what society despises.
One cannot respond with their name,
Though that is all what is expected.
This excludes the discovery made while one sits calm, and collected.
Incomplete and not entirely untrue,
It is enough to sedate the curiosity.
The oceans surface like a name does not reveal its own entirety.
This cannot be answered by a question only of the surface.
Through quests of years, and trails of tears,
An outcome far from worthless.