‘My baby asks for guidance.
He has question-marks for pupils.
He rests to the sound of my voice
In his calmness he seeks my answers.
He doesn’t appear critical;
For he glorifies the truth in me
So when he stretches up his spine,
I feel his hands pulling…requesting.
What can I answer to his what’s
when I myself know nothing…
How can he turn me into a God
How can he view me as his only ‘something’?
At the movement of my brush,
he stares looking for light.
At the shaking of my lips,
he pauses, ready to ask ‘why?’.
What if my words end ‘fore his need?
What if he sees my nothing?
Would his heart still skip a beat,
when I feed him with what’s left of me?
Does he ever truly see that he makes me happy?
Is his heart willing to embrace the fact that I lack answers?
Is his mind ready to accept that truth lies not in words?
Is simply his dream of me what makes him so happy?’