we were four for four, once.
four of four, perhaps.
maybe more, maybe less.
only two know, for sure.
i sought knowledge from the groundswell,
the soil gnashed at my sneakers,
staining the walls of my keds.
i was undeterred.
i dug, i inquired, i pled,
til the tips of my fingers bled,
i found no insight, instead;
devastation.
sometimes, there’s a reason
what’s buried is buried.
even graverobbers have morals,
i hear.
i asked about you once,
in passing,
after coffee and some pleasantries,
the steam smouldering up on my glasses,
like sighs from the pit of my gut,
when you simply looked back at me,
sighed,
and said,
“i don’t know what to tell you,
other than he should tell you,
himself.”
the great library,
again, knowledge i sought.
i thought maybe,
just maybe,
i would find an answer.
i was determined.
but my eyes gave out,
the keeper gave a shout,
and i found no name, no face,
desperation.
the nonameface.
the voided man.
i thought i found you once,
after searching names and places,
the clicks of the keys,
opening doors to empty closets,
when every name, every place,
sighed,
and whispered,
“this isn’t who you’re looking for,
and you may not want to find him,
yourself.”
i suppose one day,
when the gray sets in,
the decay sets in,
the quiet sets in,
i’ll fly out.
touch down in saint louie,
seek out the keeper of secrets,
and finally ask,
why?
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