Mental sludge

 

If I ask the sky

for answers,

will she reply?

Will she whisper gently

a word in the breeze,

or instead let me

sink to my knees?

Coated in my own

mental sludge.

Manifesting

what life could be

holding in store

for me, if I could

only find

the right pathway,

or do my answers lie

in a falsehood,

telling me untruths

disguised as

a way onward,

when

in truth, I’m only

circling the same

stretch of mud.

I walk in this

Wood-scented

dampening dream,

and I think.

maybe answers

are not what I need,

but better questions.