The answer
The problem with this poetry
is that it’s riddled with words –
a conundrum shot full of holes;
a leaky vessel letting in, perhaps,
a scattering of light but sinking
ultimately under the weight
of its own inconsistencies.
I want to wash my hands of it;
wash my mouth out with soap,
but I’m stuck like ink to the page.
The riddle’s inside me and there’ll be
no peace until it’s solved, the answer
shining through each contradiction
in all its inexpressible glory.
O child of God, what is there to say?
Truth is not comprised of explanations.
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