Fifth, Second

Slowly, almost as a secret being whispered in the ear of a lover--a delicate truth spoken in the arms of passion, of desire, and of belief, utterly, in moment over narrative or history, over before or after--only now, and now and now.

Then a suggestion, a promise, a leading line--this to that and in turn to this other thing as well.  And you think that the promise is of far-off things, suggesting dues to be paid and the passage of time, duties fulfilled.

But no.

Suddenly it's upon you; well before you thought it would EVER come.  There it is, bold and brash, spoken in no uncertain terms and in major themes; it marches, but only so far.  Because like the hand burned after the too-soon reach, there is doubt.  Always doubt and question.  Analysis and unfettered ferreting out of deception's potential for misleads.

Suggestion returns and then with it again that certain knowledge leading only again to question.  Why this cycle?  One wonders whether this is the human condition, to cast about this way, back and forth from doubt to truth to doubt again.  Themes and variations, melodies taken up up by different instruments some more mature some wanting youth and some achieving it.  Then one looks around and finds no one else asking similar questions.

Then there is the feeling of true loss.  Why only me?

Where did they all go?  Mother, father, sister, brother?