Church Yards

Flashing by, red orange blurs
that taste of heaven
and damnation, soul sheds and
bone markers reminding us of
our time on a mortal trip
and we roll on down the highway
filling up with questions
or purging our spleen,
but quietly, quietly, innocents
are within earshot, and their
questions we may not be
ready, if we are ever ready,
to answer, because there is
(trust us on this)
there is no real way to answer
the unanswerable,
to a mind that thinks
there is an answer to all,
believes there is answer to all
Which perhaps, is grace.
But is not like us,
who have grown up and
wonder if the fall was was worth it.