A sheaf of wires: a harvest of facts.
Bundled and baled into circuits of certainty,
running through walls with the hurry of truth,
enlightening with frightening speed
the ceilings and walls and cabinets and halls
of the house of my dubious brain.
Each is so sure
that it grips to its ground
with a boa-tight bond
and it sticks to its fixtures
with a passionate twist.
But one, a weedy question mark,
Infests the field with its ubiquitous queries,
Sounding a pestiferous drone,
A plaguey buzz of
why, why, why, why, why,
locust-winged doubts devouring the faithful grain.