My void is filled with whys
sequenced as a crescendo...
(why… whyyyyy, whaieee)
blooming until I collapse into myself.
Your answers, I long;
you reply with abstractions.
with apathetic bites, we finish the forbidden fruit,
half-eaten, fossilized and forgotten.
Amid our cautious tongues,
a thousand turbulent grasshoppers
scream for a cloudburst
(why…whaieee... why not?)