Question —

by Trevor Worthey

Do you know why I write?
Why I bother sending my thoughts
On parched white paper—
Courtesy of Incendiaries’ Express?
Nor do I.

I sit on concrete steps
And lay down
Things that may never be heard
Or considered.
Things that, in my desolation
Venerate the sea and forest
And give praise to the human soul.
Do I feel the need
To somehow make a difference?
Perhaps. Perhaps
I only do it
For your disillusionment
No—your…contemplation.
Hypothetical
As it may be.

Have you realized what you’ve created?
Your machine will repudiate dust
To choke from your people
Their air and…
And their human indifferences.
Love, from Alletoria.

Why do I live
For the things I do?
Why dare I say,
Even for myself,
That the subreality is intolerable?
Heh. That your broken bricks
Might someday collapse
Around your head?

Have you experienced
True inspiration?
Probably not.
But perhaps you have
Simply drifted through this life.
Perhaps you can relate.
Perhaps…

Your actions are inexplicable
You don’t process your images;
You don’t need to—
The universal amalgam
Of human experience
As personalized to fit your spirit
Pushes you forward
Through the nebulous seas
Of a world
Not entirely its own.

And your hand writes
And ink flows,
Though you wouldn’t know
Why your script is such a way.
But you can’t question
You can’t take a step
In the wrong direction.
You just…
Write.



 

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