Where do these words come from?
Where do the questions percolate?
Where does longing grow?
If only from the water and fat
of this brain.
But electrical impulses and biochemicals
have no meaning-
no poem.
What I want is a romantic answer,
A story I can hold close to my breast-
One that will satisfy the hole of endless questions,
paradoxes
and heartbreak.
One I can smile about over tea,
and laugh about
in open fields of long grass,
one that is made of
startdust
and songs.