Inquiring the Question

Where does my love grow?
In my heart? My mind?
Maybe my soul?

Inquiry stacked
Into a revolver
Shot many a times
I’ve got the wounds to show her

Why all the questions
Of words and mumbles
Just let it be
Don’t be stumbled

I believe that love
Comes in many a form
A bush, tree, maybe an apple
To explain to you, a mind could be torn

Don’t be confused
I’ve only begun
To describe my dreams
Shot out like a gun

Purple, magenta, silver, gold
This only just skims
The world untold

What defines who we are?
Our language? Image?
Maybe our soul?

Who decides this?
Where does it start?
I’m being a bit hypocritical
From how this poem would start

Questions smushed against our knowledge
What if we can’t suffice
An answer worth talking?