Risky investments that we ask.
No residuals. Just iniquitous inquiry signed
on the face of a blank check.
Vulnerability ensues, for we
are responsible for our own answers.
Who else has the power to answer our questions?
What is a question but a license to be denied?
By dreams, by people, by hopes, by fears.
Our questions open the gateway to
Hell, resulting contusions.
But we ask anyway,
Because what greater gifts occur then when we awake to find
the answers we were looking for—
were the ones we already held
in the first place?
And feel that divine ground that shimmers,
that spiritual plane that materializes,
under the discoveries of our answers.