Poetry

Inner Working

Twelve keys lie on the ground, a thirteenth in my hand.

The doors, except one, have already been opened;

they spilt their knowledge over my skin.

A conclusion is not an answer, only the point at which we cease.

I could conclude here and now, and rest,

or use the thirteenth key and find the answer.

Is it really the answer I’m looking for,

or a way out of the answer altogether?

Why am I being asked what the answer is?

Because I’ve been told to find it.

That’s not a good enough reason for me.