Everything that is said
deserves to be heard.
Yet all we heard
did not bring answers,
only silence dressed as truth.

So I wonder—
who should ask the questions?
The ones that linger in the air
like smoke without fire,
like footsteps without a road.

What if all we were told
were lies, polished bright,
handed to us as gifts,
but heavy with emptiness inside?

Who will ask my questions then?
Who will pull at the threads
until the fabric of the story unravels?
Who will stand in the gap
between what is told
and what is real?

I hold my questions close,
like a lantern in the dark,
waiting for the one
who dares to light it.