Don't ask stupid questions

 the smudge
that rubs a brushing finger
the bruising colour of guilt and pain
this trickle of dye that runs ever deeper
writhing
a hairs width from the surface
of the ageless mortal tapestry
keens and wails it's soulful song
with the ecstatic finality of rhythm
found in the erratic drip
from solemn guillotine strings

that terrible dirge
that beautiful sound
it taunts, it teases so
softly seeping
ghosting between the cracks and joints
of chitin built to shield
against the chilling answers
to haunting questions  
buried in the wind

let the song whirl
in that searching wind
that tries and fails
to open the book of a lonely truth

let that knowledge float past
with the gusts of wind
that stroke and dry
dye best left untouched
as it constantly cuts it's words
deeper into the flesh of torn psyches

"There are blemishes and there are patterns on the fabric of life"

whichever one I am
adornment or blemish
I'm thankful
for every blissful day of ignorance