these questions will not be aloud

The underbelly of the earth has spoken:

it has dissolved all our plans with its vaporized breath,

it has belched the smell of fear into the air,

we hide away indoors and refrain from embracing,

we curl further inwards and accept what we’re becoming,

we check the news and death toll impulsively,

to keep some kind of idea of control,

as if knowing how many are dead could somehow propel us into action

like a dare devil defying gravity.

Dear devil, 

why have you come?

Why have you spread your cloak to gather up the frail?

Why have you flung to earth the lights in the sky?

Why do you intrude on our home like a belligerent guest?

Dear God, are you judging us?

Are we creatures of futile thinking?

Is it your hand orchestrating the swallowing underbelly of the earth?

Tectonic plates sink into themselves and capsize,

we try to steady our steps, trying to tread on every foundation which has previously been of some help.

Dear self,

where do you go from here? What is the golden thread keeping your life from fraying?

Whether platitudes or prayers,

our palms press on some secret rope for us to pull on,

something with its roots in the ground so that we don’t fall off that vertical ledge.

These questions will not be aloud.

They will linger in the corners of our minds and on the tips of our tongues,

but will find no resting place in the arms of tender knowing.

They will die there unheard, unsaid.