“The Question”

of wasted afternoons
spent wallowing in self-pity
a question begins to form
hind-brain, throbbing as it spreads
from needle-thin point of entry
‘why’
‘why’ echoes in my skull
round the rotted sack
which once held most precious organ
now decayed, failing, slipping
slipping
“clutch to life, you fool” we cry
clutch to ‘why’
‘why’ takes over
and we have purchased life
at the cost of sanity

© M. Black, 2015 All rights reserved.

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