Questions Not Boldly Faced Become Bloodthirsty

The questions do not ask us, “Are you ready now?” They come, as sudden as a whip, or with a few soft footfalls,

some not shy, but anyway, the shy ones are the worst.

Their quiet whispers at awareness’ edge, like gentle rustling branches, imperceptibly grow daily a trifle louder,

until one day a roar that can no longer be ignored.

Oh, arc of time, arc of ripening, of destiny and shifting shape— soft lull of whisper now become demand in the sand.

Oh, divided self, o fear of risk, o foot that steps forward and then hesitates—

The questions do not wait or even ask for reasons. They do not take excuses.

They are the jury and the Judge,

And then they grow into an angry lion to execute the sentence, shaking excuses in their bloody teeth.