I have asked the darkness about life.
As in, biology? The construction of organisms?
The inability to separate the parts from the whole,
or the resilience of the whole to exist in the absence of its parts?
The differences between engine, locomotion, and the connecting shell,
or of which gives purpose to which, if at all?
I have asked the void about time.
As in, physics? The natural curve of things?
To be coming and going, like gardens or attention spans or plagues,
or conflicting opinions of singularity and multiplicity in timelines and existences?
The bad understandings of popular science fiction,
or the possibility of existing as everything, outside of a conscious reality?
I have asked the dream inside about love.
As in, chemistry? Or perhaps more accurately, psychology?
The control taken by hormones in bloodflow between one's mind and genitals,
or the disappointment after expectation after disappointment after disappointment?
The security or the obligation? The need or the yearning?
The patterns which seem so unscientific, or the adventures which seem so worthy?
I could give myself to the purpose of someone else's thirst
until their hands ran red with me, or else I could become
the sword upon which I fall, but either way
we and I are energy, bound for change, as in science.
But I am still so unlike a scientist for not seeking
nor expecting any clarity from answers,
or from questions.