No one knows
what the answer is-
we feed the gaps of emotion
with chlorhydrate chemistry,
and cry for nameless things.

Ineratic dread
bleeds out the eyes,
and pools at our feet.

What a mess we say,
(chaotic shame)
a drip drop of greasy guilt
coats our tongues
and paints our teeth grey.

We can hear our bones cracking
under the weight of shadowy,
imperceptible grief.

No one wants to know
what the answer is-
survival is extending our arms
and chemically smothering
all those nameless things.

© Nancy Botta, 2018