it is nothing
but a burgeoning doubting
in my mind
but a question asked
in secret into
familiar valleys of a
drowned and comfortless pillow
but a tirade of rage
and bitter finger-pointing
to myself and no one,
almost no one, else
but an itch
i have scratched
too many times over
until a wound has formed
until an infection has spread across
the sinews and threads
of the suffocating why
that is my
silence.
only the silence
of feigned ignorance
and duty-bound forgiveness
can make it right.
only my silence.
it is nothing.
