Answers Seeking Questions
by Odin Roark

What

of this umbrella called night,
this cloak of mystery
so right in its wrong,
a masquerade of demonic joy for some,
while readying tomorrow’s blossoms for others,
this inevitable rejoicing in the bloodletting of everyone’s countenance?

Why

is the depth of our eyes
reflected in your infinity,
the glitter of mammalian mirrors,
so bright below the cobalt
of your nocturnal mantel?

How

while enclosed in your comforting swathe,
the warmth of cocoon,
your breath of moonlit honeysuckle,
does so much evil manage to manifest?

Who

are others kneading tomorrow’s sustenance,
glimpsing through windowed clarity
at your crescent bangle,
dancing slowly across the sky
before committing to the harmony
of sunrise’s freshly baked efforts
vessels of sunlit deliverance for humanity in a rush?

Is

there a reason for this choice
of dimming daylight,
life needing the deliverance of night?

Possible

our nourishment,
suddenly awakened after sufficient respite
beneath your protective cloak
enables layered color of thought,
bestowing lucidity to the undiscovered,
the yet to be welcomed,
the yet of the next epiphany?