CAROLINE ENNIS
a blessing

I don't believe.
I don't believe in. . .
I don't believe that my questions
don't resound, make no sound,
that they wordlessly drown
in your highly carbonated ballets.
And its always you
skillfully weaving, flawlessly deceiving
mercilessly bereaving my need for the truth
. You! Placating my errant questions,
their knife edges
unspeakably frightening as they play hands at enlightening
and brightening the soft bellied
guitar riffs of your existence...
coalescing into a blessing
so apt at undressing my questions
and putting them to sleep
like children,
carefully wedged into their bedclothes
and simply glad to be supported,
or afforded, five centimeters from being aborted-
(& which is worse? death or death of never being?)
And I can't believe.
(well, sometimes a little)
I won't believe in this nail polished actuality
that festers, stolidly sequesters
for endless semesters...
I won't believe!!
That these questions,
-stuntedly laconic and a trifle moronic-
emit the inanely supersonic
annoyances you say they do-
because
I don't believe!
I don't believe in. . .
I don't believe in you.