slowly, but

surely it pushes up

ends this progress

wends its way

from somewhere deep

within the “belly”

of the soul’s secret

the innermost being

ascending into dust

it’s all well and good, but

that sort of thing

doesn’t go down well

in these here parts

all you can hear

are the parts, that

same old same old

melody tripping

down the memory

swells of longing

and what if?

there is an answer

and i asked all

the wrong questions

until it was all

out in the open

square of the city

every crack a door

for roots or stems

pushing their little

rhizomatic noses

into every empty space

until they are fully

entangled

like your locks

the right question

is a key, that

makes me whole

or even holy

because healing

is a miracle

that starts small

who knows when?

it begins

when we stop

begging