The questions go on, unspoken and unanswered, flies landing on the flesh not yet tainted with rot. Asking always invites perspective, perspective always shows somehow it is not enough. Always this want of understanding, these hints of a puzzle that can't be seen. Always this need to justify these words with still more words. Pressed against these tides of sensation, buffeted by the insistence of pattern after pattern. The words writhe and wriggle, bursting from these stillnesses left the blood.
It feels as if it's the mystery's tell, these devotions that whisper through the substance, these rituals that tidy the mind. It is never the silence that drives us to speak, it is the distaste to hear the rhythm broken, that conversation you always count off in your head. We learn the beat before we see it, the words all landing once we've pitched the roost. Matter all flush with candor, the ghosts we give when we stir the simulacra our nerves offer each touch, our hearts so laden as every sentiment renders our world. The words bear witness as if drawn from the wind or water. We speak the words, and the world shifts into place.
We drift amid these tides and spells, the words we spill, the notes we hold. All the lot of want and wonder, lovers' fingers and nature's bounty. All the breadth of human senses, strung out on the line. The bones dug up the alphabet of this latest phrasing, the shards and relics stories they told. We speak aloud to the pots and stones, the air filling with our worries. We sing along to the song in our heads, the sky and earth giving way to gods. The world always outside our answers, knowing only all.